THE  LIBRARY 
OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

FROM  THE  LIBRARY  OF 

JIM  TULLY 

GIFT  OF 
MRS.  JIM  TULLY 


BEAjTCON 
EDII  \TION 


Volume   II 


j 


BENT   FORWARD   AND  GLl'ED   HIS   LIPS   TO 
THE    PRIEST'S   EAR. 


THE  NOVELS,  STORIES 
AND  SKETCHES  OF 
F.  HOPKINSON  SMITH 


A  WHITE  UMBRELLA 
IN  MEXICO  *  *  * 
AND  OTHER  LANDS  ^ 


CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S 
SONS  J*  NEW  YORK  j»J  908 


A  WHITE  UMBRELLA  IN  MEXICO 

COPYRIGHT,  1889,  BY  F.  HOPKINSON  SMITH 

A  DAY  AT  LAGUERRB'S  AND  OTHER  DAYS 

COPYRIGHT,  1892,  BY  F.  HOPKINSON  SMITH 

WELL-WORN  ROADS  OF  SPAIN,  HOLLAND,  AND  ITALY 

COPYRIGHT,  1886,  1887,  AND  1898,  BY  F.  HOPKINSON  SMITH 


ALL   RIGHTS    RESERVED 


Published  under  special  arrangement 
•with  Hough  ton,  Mifflin  &>  Co. 


PS 


Foa 


V.  2, 

CONTENTS 

A  WHITE  UMBRELLA  IN  MEXICO 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

INTRODUCTION       ....      3 
I.  A  MORNING  IN  GUANAJUATO        .  7 

II.   AFTER  DARK  IN  SILAO     .          .          .24 

III.  THE  OPALS  OF  QUER^TARO  .         37 

IV.  SOME  PEONS  AT  AGUAS  CAUENTES    49 
V.  THE  OLD   CHAIR  IN  THE  SACRISTY 

AT  ZACATECAS  ....     64 
VI.  IN  THE  CITY'S  STREETS        .          .         81 

VII.  ON  THE  PASEO        .          .          .          .95 

VIII.  PALM  SUNDAY   IN  PUEBLA   DE   LOS 

ANGELES         ....       102 

IX.  A  DAY  IN  TOLUCA  .          .          .121 

X.  TO  MORELIA  WITH  MOON    .          .132 

XI.   PATZCUARO  AND  THE  LAKE     .          .142 

XII.  TZINTZUNTZAN  AND  THE  TITIAN  .        157 

ix 


849356 


CONTENTS 

IN  OTHER  LANDS 

UNDER  THE  MINARETS    .          .          .          .185 
A  PERSONALLY  CONDUCTED   ARREST   IN 

CONSTANTINOPLE  .          .          .          .212 
THE  HUNGARIAN  MILLENNIUM  .          .  237 

A  BULGARIAN  OPERA  BOUFFE  271 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

THE  MAN  .  .  .  BENT  FORWARD  AND  GLUED  HIS 
LIPS  TO  THE  PRIEST'S  EAR  .          .       Frontispiece 
FROM  A  DRAWING  BY  J.  N.  MARCHAND 

FACING  PAGE 

ALONG  THE  GOLDEN  HORN  .          .          .192 

FROM  A  DRAWING  BY  F.  HOPKINSON  SMITH 

VARIED  TYPES  OF  HUNGARIAN  ARCHITECTURE  258 
FROM  A  DRAWING  BY  F.  HOPKINSON  SMITH 


A   WHITE   UMBRELLA    IN 
MEXICO 


INTRODUCTION 

MY  probe  has  not  gone  very  far  below  the 
surface.  The  task  would  have  been 
uncongenial  and  the  result  superfluous.  The 
record  of  the  resources,  religions,  politics,  gov- 
ernments, social  conditions,  and  misfortunes  of 
Mexico  already  enlarges  many  folios  and  lies 
heavy  on  many  shelves,  and  I  hope  on  some 
consciences. 

I  have  preferred  rather  to  present  what  would 
appeal  to  the  painter  and  idler.  A  land  of  white 
sunshine  redolent  with  flowers  ;  a  land  of  gay 
costumes,  crumbling  churches,  and  old  con- 
vents ;  a  land  of  kindly  greetings,  of  extreme 
courtesy,  of  open,  broad  hospitality. 

I  have  delighted  my  soul  with  the  swaying 
of  the  lilies  in  the  sunlight,  the  rush  of  the 
roses  crowding  over  mouldy  walls,  the  broad- 
leaved  palms  cooling  the  shadows,  and  have 
wasted  none  of  my  precious  time  searching  for 
the  lizard  and  the  mole  crawling  at  their  roots. 

Content  with  the  novelty  and  charm  of  the 
picturesque  life  about  me,  I  have  watched  the 

3 


INTRODUCTION 

naked  children  at  play  and  the  patient  peon  at 
work;  and  the  haughty  hidalgo,  armed  and 
guarded,  inspecting  his  plantation  ;  and  the 
dark-skinned  sefiorita  with  her  lips  pressed 
close  to  the  gratings  of  the  confessional ;  and 
even  the  stealthy,  furtive  glance  of  the  outlaw, 
without  caring  to  analyze  or  solve  any  one  of 
the  many  social  and  religious  problems  which 
make  these  conditions  possible. 

It  was  enough  for  me  to  find  the  wild  life  of 
the  Comanche,  the  grand  estate  of  the  Spanish 
Don,  and  the  fragments  of  the  past  splendor  of 
the  ecclesiastical  orders  existing  side  by  side 
with  the  remnant  of  that  Aztec  civilization 
which  fired  the  Spanish  heart  in  the  old  days 
of  the  Conquest.  Enough  to  discover  that  in 
this  remnant  there  still  survived  a  race  capable 
of  the  highest  culture  and  worthy  of  the  deepest 
study.  A  distinct  and  peculiar  people.  An  un- 
selfish, patient,  tender-hearted  people,  of  great 
personal  beauty,  courage,  and  refinement.  A 
people  maintaining  in  their  every-day  life  an 
etiquette  phenomenal  in  a  down-trodden  race  ; 
offering  instantly  to  the  stranger  and  wayfarer 
on  the  very  threshold  of  their  adobe  huts  a 
hospitality  so  generous,  accompanied  by  a  cour- 
tesy so  exquisite,  that  one  stops  at  the  next 
doorway  to  reenjoy  the  luxury. 

4 


INTRODUCTION 

It  was  more  than  enough  to  revel  in  an  Italian 
sun  lighting  up  a  semi-tropical  land  ;  to  look  up 
to  white-capped  peaks  towering  into  the  blue  ; 
to  look  down  upon  wind-swept  plains  encircled 
by  ragged  chains  of  mountains;  to  catch  the 
sparkle  of  miniature  cities  jewelled  here  and 
there  in  oases  of  olive  and  orange  ;  and  to  real- 
ize that  to-day,  in  its  varied  scenery,  costumes, 
architecture,  street  life,  canals  crowded  with 
flower -laden  boats,  market  plazas  thronged 
with  gayly  dressed  natives,  faded  church  in- 
teriors, and  abandoned  convents,  Mexico  is  the 
most  marvellously  picturesque  country  under 
the  sun.  A  tropical  Venice !  a  semi-barbarous 
Spain  !  a  new  Holy  Land. 

To  study  and  enjoy  this  or  any  other  people 
thoroughly,  one  must  live  in  the  streets.  A 
chat  with  the  old  woman  selling  rosaries  near 
the  door  of  the  cathredral,  half  an  hour  spent 
with  the  sacristan  after  morning  mass,  and  a 
word  now  and  then  with  the  donkey-boy,  the 
water-carrier,  and  the  padre,  will  give  you  a 
better  idea  of  a  town  and  a  closer  insight  into 
its  inner  life  than  days  spent  at  the  governor's 
palace  or  the  museum. 

If  your  companion  is  a  white  umbrella,  and 
if  beneath  its  shelter  you  sit  for  hours  painting 
the  picturesque  bits  that  charm  your  eye,  you 

5 


INTRODUCTION 

will  have  hosts  of  lookers-on  attracted  by  idle 
curiosity.  Many  of  these  will  prove  good  friends 
during  your  stay,  and  will  vie  with  each  other 
in  doing  you  many  little  acts  of  kindness  which 
will  linger  lovingly  in  your  memory  long  after 
you  have  shaken  the  white  dust  of  their  vil- 
lages from  your  feet. 

It  is  in  this  spirit  and  with  this  intent  that  I 
ask  you  to  turn  aside  from  the  heat  and  bustle 
of  your  daily  life  long  enough  to  share  with  me 
the  cool  and  quiet  of  my  white  umbrella  while 
it  is  opened  in  Mexico. 

F.  H.  S. 
New  York,  December,  1888. 


1 

A  MORNING  IN  GUANAJUATO 

THIS  morning  I  am  wandering  about  Gua- 
najuato. It  is  a  grotesque,  quaint,  old 
mining  town,  near  the  line  of  the  Mexican  Cen- 
tral Railroad,  within  a  day's  journey  of  the  City 
of  Mexico.  I  had  arrived  the  night  before,  tired 
out,  and  awoke  so  early  that  the  sun  and  I  ap- 
peared on  the  streets  about  the  same  hour. 

The  air  was  deliciously  cool  and  fragrant,  and 
shouldering  my  sketch-trap  and  umbrella  I  bent 
my  steps  towards  the  church  of  la  parrbquia. 

I  had  seen  it  the  night  previous  as  I  passed  by 
in  the  starlight,  and  its  stone  pillars  and  twisted 
iron  railings  so  delighted  me  that  I  spent  half  the 
night  elaborating  its  details  in  my  sleep. 

The  tide  of  worshippers  filling  the  streets  car- 
ried prayer-books  and  rosaries.  They  were  evi- 
dently intent  on  early  mass.  As  for  myself,  I 
was  simply  drifting  about,  watching  the  people, 
making  notes  in  my  sketch-book,  and  saturat- 
ing myself  with  the  charming  novelty  of  my 
surroundings. 


A  WHITE  UMBRELLA  IN  MEXICO 

When  I  reached  the  small  square  facing  the 
great  green  door  of  the  beautiful  old  church, 
the  golden  sunlight  was  just  touching  its  quaint 
towers,  and  the  stone  urns  and  crosses  surmount- 
ing the  curious  pillars  below  were  still  in  shadow, 
standing  out  in  dark  relief  against  the  blue  sky 
beyond. 

I  mingled  with  the  crowd,  followed  into  the 
church,  listened  a  while  to  the  service,  and  then 
returned  to  the  plaza  and  began  a  circuit  of  the 
square  that  I  might  select  some  point  of  sight 
from  which  I  could  seize  the  noble  pile  as  a 
whole,  and  thus  express  it  within  the  square  of 
my  canvas. 

The  oftener  I  walked  around  it,  the  more 
difficult  became  the  problem.  A  dozen  times  I 
made  the  circuit,  stopping,  pondering,  and  step- 
ping backwards  and  sideways  after  the  manner 
of  painters  similarly  perplexed ;  attracting  a 
curious  throng,  who  kept  their  eyes  upon  me 
very  much  as  if  they  suspected  I  was  either 
slightly  crazed  or  was  about  to  indulge  in  some 
kind  of  heathen  rite  entirely  new  to  them. 

Finally  it  became  plainly  evident  that  but 
one  point  of  sight  could  be  relied  upon.  This 
centred  in  the  archway  of  a  private  house  im- 
mediately opposite  the  church.  1  determined  to 
move  in  and  take  possession. 


A  MORNING  IN  GUANAJUATO 

Some  care,  however,  is  necessary  in  the  in- 
roads one  makes  upon  a  private  house  in  a  Span- 
ish city.  A  watchful  porter  half  concealed  in 
the  garden  of  the  patio  generally  has  his  eye 
on  the  gateway,  and  overhauls  you  before  you 
have  taken  a  dozen  steps  with  a  "  Hold,  senor  ! 
d  quidn  busca  usted?"  You  will  also  find  the 
lower  windows  protected  by  iron  rejas,  through 
which,  if  you  are  on  good  terms  with  the  black 
eyes  within,  you  may  perhaps  kiss  the  tips  of 
her  tapering  fingers. 

There  is  a  key  to  the  heart  of  every  Spaniard 
which  has  seldom  failed  me  —  the  use  of  a  lit- 
tle politeness.  This  always  engages  his  atten- 
tion. Add  to  it  a  dash  of  ceremony,  and  he  is 
your  friend  at  once.  If  you  ask  a  Cuban  for  a 
light,  he  will  first  remove  his  hat,  then  his 
cigar,  make  you  a  low  bow,  and  holding  his 
fragrant  Havana  between  his  thumb  and  fore- 
finger, with  the  lighted  end  towards  himself, 
will  present  it  to  you  with  the  air  of  a  grandee 
that  is  at  once  graceful  and  captivating.  If  .you 
follow  his  example  and  remain  bareheaded  un- 
til the  courtesy  is  complete  he  will  continue 
bowing  until  you  are  out  of  sight.  If  you  are 
forgetful,  and  with  thoughts  intent  upon  your 
own  affairs  merely  thank  him  and  pass  on,  he 
will  bless  himself  that  he  is  not  as  other  men 


A  WHITE  UMBRELLA  IN  MEXICO 

are,  and  dismiss  you  from  his  mind  as  one  of 
those  outside  barbarians  whom  it  is  his  duty  to 
forget. 

In  Mexico  the  people  are  still  more  punctil- 
ious. To  pass  an  acquaintance  on  the  street 
without  stopping,  hat  in  hand,  and  inquiring 
one  by  one  for  his  wife,  children,  and  the  vari- 
ous members  of  his  household,  and  then  wait- 
ing patiently  until  he  goes  through  the  same 
family  list  for  you,  is  an  unforgivable  offence 
among  friends.  Even  the  native  Indians  are  dis- 
tinguished by  an  elaboration  of  manner  in  the 
courtesies  they  constantly  extend  to  each  other 
noted  in  no  other  serving  people. 

An  old  woman,  barefooted,  ragged,  and  dust- 
begrimed,  leaning  upon  a  staff,  once  preceded 
me  up  a  narrow,  crooked  street.  She  looked 
like  an  animated  fishnet  hung  on  a  fence  to  dry, 
so  ragged  and  emaciated  was  she.  A  young  In- 
dian one  half  her  age  crossed  her  steps  as  she 
turned  into  a  side  street.  Instantly  he  removed 
his  hat  and  saluted  her  as  if  she  had  been  the 
Queen  of  Sheba.  ' '  A  los  pies  de  usted,  senora  ' ' 
(at  your  feet,  lady),  I  heard  him  say  as  I 
passed.  "  Bese  usted  las  tnanos  "  (my  hands 
for  your  kisses,  sefior),  replied  she,  with  a  bow 
which  would  have  become  a  duchess. 

I  have  lived  long  enough  in  Spanish  countries 
10 


A  MORNING  IN  GUANAJUATO 

to  adapt  my  own  habits  and  regulate  my  own 
conduct  to  the  requirements  of  these  customs  ; 
and  so  when  this  morning  in  Guanajuato,  I  dis- 
covered that  my  only  hope  lay  within  the  arch- 
way of  the  patio  of  this  noble  house,  at  once 
the  residence  of  a  man  of  wealth  and  of  rank,  I 
forthwith  succumbed  to  the  law  of  the  country, 
with  a  result  that  doubly  paid  me  for  all  the 
precious  time  it  took  to  accomplish  it ;  precious, 
because  the  whole  front  of  the  beautiful  old 
church  with  its  sloping  flight  of  semicircular 
stone  steps  was  now  bathed  in  sunlight,  and  a 
few  hours  later  the  hot  sun  climbing  to  the  ze- 
nith would  round  the  corner  of  the  tower,  leave 
it  in  shadow,  and  so  spoil  its  effect. 

Within  this  door  sat  a  fat,  oily  porter,  rolling 
cigarettes.  I  approached  him,  handed  him  my 
card,  and  bade  him  convey  it  to  his  master  to- 
gether with  my  most  distinguished  considera- 
tions, and  inform  him  that  I  was  a  painter  from 
a  distant  city  by  the  sea,  and  that  I  craved  per- 
mission to  erect  my  easel  within  the  gates  of 
his  palace  and  from  this  coign  of  vantage  paint 
the  most  sacred  church  across  the  way. 

Before  I  had  half  examined  the  square  of  the 

patio,  with  its  Moorish  columns  and  arches  and 

tropical  garden  filled  with  flowers,  I  heard  quick 

footsteps  above  and  caught  sight  of  a  group  of 

ii 


A  WHITE  UMBRELLA  IN  MEXICO 

gentlemen,  preceded  by  an  elderly  man  with 
bristling  white  hair,  walking  rapidly  along  the 
piazza,  of  the  second  or  living  floor  of  the  house. 

In  a  moment  more  the  whole  party  descended 
the  marble  staircase  and  approached  me.  The 
elderly  man  with  the  white  hair  held  in  his 
hand  my  card. 

"With  the  greatest  pleasure,  sefior,"  he 
said  graciously.  "  You  can  use  my  doorway  or 
any  portion  of  my  house  ;  it  is  all  yours  ;  the 
view  from  the  balcony  above  is  much  more  ex- 
tensive. Will  you  not  ascend  and  see  for  your- 
self ?  But  let  me  present  you  to  my  friends 
and  insist  that  you  first  come  to  breakfast." 

But  I  did  not  need  the  balcony,  and  it  was 
impossible  for  me  to  share  his  coffee.  The  sun 
was  moving,  the  day  half  gone,  my  stay  in 
Guanajuato  limited.  If  he  would  permit  me  to 
sit  within  the  shadow  of  his  gate  I  would  ever 
bless  his  generosity,  and,  the  sketch  finished, 
would  do  myself  the  honor  of  appearing  before 
him. 

Half  a  dozen  times  during  the  progress  of 
this  picture  the  whole  party  ran  down  the  stair- 
case, napkins  in  hand,  broke  out  into  rapturous 
exclamations  over  its  development,  and  insisted 
that  some  sort  of  nourishment,  either  solid  or 
fluid,  was  absolutely  necessary  for  the  preserva- 

12 


A  MORNING  IN  GUANAJUATO 

tion  of  my  life.  Soon  the  populace  began  to 
take  an  interest,  and  so  blocked  up  the  gate- 
way that  I  could  no  longer  follow  the  outlines 
of  the  church.  I  remonstrated,  and  appealed 
to  my  host.  He  grasped  the  situation,  gave  a 
rapid  order  to  the  porter,  who  disappeared,  and 
almost  immediately  reappeared  with  an  officer, 
who  saluted  my  host  with  marked  respect.  Five 
minutes  later  a  squad  of  soldiers  cleared  out 
the  archway  and  the  street  in  front,  formed 
two  files,  and  mounted  guard  until  my  work 
was  over.  I  began  to  wonder  what  manner  of 
man  was  this  who  gave  away  palaces  and  com- 
manded armies ! 

At  last  the  sketch  was  finished,  and  leaving 
the  porter  in  charge  of  my  trap,  I  seized  the 
canvas,  mounted  the  winding  staircase,  and 
presented  myself  at  the  large  door  opening  on 
the  balcony.  At  sight  of  me  not  only  my  host, 
but  all  his  guests,  rose  to  their  feet  and  wel- 
comed me  heartily,  crowding  about  the  chair 
against  which  I  propped  the  picture. 

Then  a  door  in  the  rear  of  the  breakfast  room 
opened,  and  the  sefiora  and  her  two  pretty 
daughters  glided  in  for  a  peep  at  the  work  of 
the  morning,  declaring  in  one  breath  that  it 
was  very  wonderful  that  so  many  colors  could 
be  put  together  in  so  short  a  time  ;  that  I  must 

13 


A  WHITE  UMBRELLA  IN  MEXICO 

be  muy  fatigado,  and  that  they  would  serve 
coffee  for  my  refreshment  at  once. 

This  to  a  tramp,  remember,  discovered  on  a 
doorstep  but  a  few  hours  before,  with  designs 
on  the  hallway  ! 

This  done  1  must  see  the  garden  and  the  par- 
rots in  the  swinging  cages  and  the  miniature 
Chihuahua  dogs,  and  last  I  must  ascend  the 
flight  of  brick  steps  leading  to  the  roof  and  see 
the  view  from  the  tip-top  of  the  house.  It  was 
when  leaning  over  the  projecting  iron  rail  of 
this  lookout,  with  the  city  below  me  and  the 
range  of  hills  above  dotted  with  mining  shafts, 
that  I  made  bold  to  ask  my  host  a  direct  ques- 
tion. 

"Sefior,  it  is  easy  for  you  to  see  what  my 
life  is  and  how  I  fill  it.  Tell  me,  what  manner 
of  man  are  you  ?  " 

"  Con  gusto,  sehor.  I  am  un  minero.  The 
shaft  you  see  to  the  right  is  the  entrance  to  my 
silver  mine.  I  am  un  agricultor.  Behind  yon 
mountain  lies  my  hacienda,  and  1  am  un  bien- 
hechor  (a  benefactor) .  The  long  white  building 
you  see  to  the  left  is  the  hospital  which  I  built 
and  gave  to  the  poor  of  my  town." 

When  I  bade  good-by  to  my  miner,  benefac- 
tor, and  friend,  I  called  a  sad-faced  Indian  boy 


A  MORNING  IN  GUANAJUATO 

who  had  watched  me  intently  while  at  work, 
and  who  waited  patiently  until  I  reappeared. 
To  him  I  consigned  my  "trap,"  with  the  ex- 
ception of  my  umbrella  staff,  which  serves  me 
as  a  cane,  and  together  we  lost  ourselves  in  the 
crowded  thoroughfare. 

"  What  is  your  name,  muchacbo  ?  "  I  asked. 

"Matias,  sefior." 

"  And  what  do  you  do  ?  " 

"Nothing." 

"All  day?" 

"  All  day  and  all  night,  sefior." 

Here  at  least  was  a  fellow  Bohemian  with 
whom  I  could  loaf  to  my  heart's  content.  I 
looked  him  over  carefully.  He  had  large  dark 
eyes  with  drooping  lids,  which  lent  an  air  of 
extreme  sadness  to  his  handsome  face.  His 
curly  black  hair  was  crowded  under  his  straw 
sombrero,  with  a  few  stray  locks  pushed  through 
the  crown.  His  shirt  was  open  at  the  throat, 
and  his  leathern  breeches,  reaching  to  his  knee, 
were  held  above  his  hips  by  a  rag  of  a  red  sash 
edged  with  frayed  silk  fringe.  Upon  his  feet 
were  the  sandals  of  the  country.  Whenever  he 
spoke  he  touched  his  hat. 

"  And  do  you  know  Guanajuato  ?  "  I  con- 
tinued. 

"  Every  stone,  senor." 

15 


A  WHITE  UMBRELLA  IN  MEXICO 

"Show  it  me." 

In  the  old  days  this  crooked  old  city  of  Gua- 
najuato was  known  as  Quanasbuato,  which  in 
the  Tarascan  tongue  means  the  "Hill  of  the 
Frogs  ;  "  not  from  the  prevalence  of  that  tooth- 
some morsel,  but  because  the  Tarascan  Indians, 
according  to  Janvier,  "found  here  a  huge  stone 
in  the  shape  of  a  frog,  which  they  worshipped." 
The  city  —  at  an  elevation  of  6800  feet  —  is 
crowded  into  a  narrow,  deep  ravine,  terraced  on 
each  side  to  give  standing  room  for  its  houses. 
The  little  Moorish-looking  town  of  Marfil  stands 
guard  at  the  entrance  of  the  narrow  gorge,  its 
heavy  stone  houses  posted  quite  into  the  road, 
and  so  blocking  it  up  that  the  trains  of  mules 
must  needs  dodge  their  way  in  and  out  to  reach 
the  railroad  below. 

As  you  pass  up  the  ravine  you  notice  that 
through  its  channel  runs  a  sluggish,  muddy 
stream,  into  which  is  emptied  all  the  filth  of 
the  City  of  Frogs  above,  as  well  as  all  the 
pumpings  and  waste  washings  of  the  silver 
mines  which  line  its  sides  below. 

Into  this  mire  droves  of  hogs  wallow  in  the 
hot  sun,  the  mud  caking  to  their  sides  and 
backs.  This,  Matias  tells  me,  their  owners  re- 
ligiously wash  off  once  a  week  to  save  the  sil- 
ver which  it  contains.  As  it  is  estimated  that 
16 


A  MORNING  IN  GUANAJUATO 

the  summer  freshets  have  scoured  from  the  bed 
of  this  brook  millions  of  dollars  of  silver  since 
the  discovery  of  these  mines  in  1 548,  the  own- 
ers cannot  be  blamed  for  scraping  these  beasts 
clean,  now  that  their  output  is  reduced  to  a 
mere  bagatelle  of  six  million  dollars  annually. 

On  you  climb,  looking  down  upon  the  houses 
just  passed  on  the  street  below,  until  you  round 
the  great  building  of  the  Alhondiga  de  Grana- 
ditas,  captured  by  the  patriot  priest  Hidalgo  in 
1 8 10,  and  still  holding  the  iron  spike  which 
spitted  his  head  the  year  following.  Then  on 
to  the  Plaza  de  Mejia  Mora,  a  charming  garden 
park  in  the  centre  of  the  city. 

This  was  my  route,  and  here  I  sat  down  on 
a  stone  bench  surrounded  by  flowers,  waving 
palms,  green  grass,  and  pretty  senoritas,  and 
listened  to  the  music  of  a  very  creditable  band 
perched  in  a  sort  of  Chinese  pagoda  in  the  park's 
centre. 

Matias  was  equal  to  the  occasion.  At  my 
request  he  ran  to  the  corner  and  brought  me 
some  oranges,  a  pot  of  coffee,  and  a  roll,  which 
I  shared  with  him  on  the  marble  slab,  much  to 
the  amusement  of  the  bystanders,  who  could 
not  understand  why  I  preferred  lunching  with 
a  street  gamin  on  a  park  bench  to  dining  with 
the  elite  of  Guanajuato  at  the  cafe  opposite. 

17 


A  WHITE  UMBRELLA  IN  MEXICO 

The  solution  was  easy.   We  were  two  tramps 
with  nothing  to  do. 

Next  Matias  pointed  out  all  the  celebrities  as 
they  strolled  through  the  plaza, — the  bishop 
coming  from  mass,  the  governor  and  his  secre- 
tary, and  the  beautiful  Sefiorita  Dona  Maria, 
who  had  been  married  the  month  before  with 
great  pomp  at  the  cathedral. 

"  And  what  church  is  that  over  the  way 
where  I  see  the  people  kneeling  outside, 
Matias?" 

"  The  Iglesia  de  San  Diego,  senor.  It  is 
Holy  Thursday.  To-day  no  one  rides  ;  all  the 
horses  are  stabled.  The  sefioritas  walk  to  church 
and  wear  black  veils,  and  that  is  why  so  many 
are  in  the  streets.  To-day  and  to-morrow  the 
mines  are  closed  and  all  the  miners  are  out  in 
the  sunlight." 

While  Matias  rattled  on  there  swept  by  me 
a  cloud  of  lace  encircling  a  bewitching  face, 
from  out  which  snapped  two  wicked  black  eyes. 
The  Mexican  beauties  have  more  vivacity  than 
their  cousins  the  Spaniards.  It  may  be  that  the 
Indian  blood  which  runs  in  their  veins  gives 
them  a  piquancy  which  reminds  you  more  of 
the  sparkle  of  the  French  grisette  than  of  the 
languid  air  common  to  almost  all  high-bred 
Spanish  women. 

18 


A  MORNING  IN  GUANAJUATO 

She,  too,  twisted  her  pretty  head,  and  a  light 
laugh  bubbled  out  from  between  her  red  lips 
and  perfect  teeth,  as  she  caught  sight  of  the 
unusual  spectacle  of  a  foreigner  in  knickerbock- 
ers breakfasting  in  the  open  air  with  a  street 
tramp  in  sandals. 

Seeing  me  divide  an  orange  with  Matias,  she 
touched  the  arm  of  her  companion,  an  elderly 
woman  carrying  a  great  fan,  pointed  me  out, 
and  then  they  both  laughed  immoderately.  I 
arose  gravely,  and,  removing  my  hat,  saluted 
them  with  all  the  deference  and  respect  I  could 
concentrate  into  one  prolonged  curve  of  my 
spinal  column.  At  this  the  duenna  looked  grave 
and  half  frightened,  but  the  sefiorita  returned 
to  me  only  smiles,  moved  her  fan  gracefully,  and 
entered  the  door  of  the  church  across  the  way. 

"  The  caballero  will  now  see  the  church  ?" 
said  the  boy  slowly,  as  if  the  incident  ended 
the  breakfast. 

Later  I  did,  and  from  behind  a  pillar,  where 
I  had  hidden  myself  away  from  the  sacristan, 
who  frowned  at  my  sketch-book,  and  where  I 
could  sketch  and  watch  unobserved  the  peni- 
tents on  their  knees  before  the  altar,  I  caught 
sight  of  my  sefiorita  snapping  her  eyes  in  the 
same  mischievous  way,  and  talking  with  her 
fan,  as  I  have  often  seen  the  Spanish  women  do 
19 


A  WHITE  UMBRELLA  IN  MEXICO 

at  the  Tacon  in  Havana.  It  was  not  to  me  this 
time,  but  to  a  devout  young  fellow  kneeling 
across  the  aisle.  And  so  she  prayed  with  her 
lips  and  talked  with  her  heart  and  fan,  and 
when  it  was  all  thus  silently  arranged  between 
them,  she  bowed  to  the  altar,  and  glided  from 
the  church  without  one  glance  at  poor  me, 
sketching  behind  the  column.  When  1  looked 
up  again  her  lover  had  vanished. 

Oh  !  the  charm  of  this  semi-tropical  Spanish 
life !  The  balconies  above  the  patios  trellised 
with  flowers ;  swinging  hammocks ;  the  slow 
plash  of  the  fountains ;  the  odor  of  jasmine  wet 
with  dew ;  the  low  thrum  of  guitar  and  click  of 
Castanet ;  the  soft  moonlight  half  revealing  the 
muffled  figures  in  lace  and  cloak !  It  is  the  same 
old  story,  and  yet  it  seems  to  me  it  is  told  in 
Spanish  lands  more  delightfully  and  with  more 
romance,  color,  and  mystery  than  elsewhere  on 
the  globe. 

Matias  woke  me  from  my  reverie. 

"  Sefior,  vespers  in  the  cathedral  at  four." 

So  we  wandered  out  into  the  sunlight,  and 
joined  the  throng  in  holiday  attire,  drifting  with 
the  current  towards  the  church  of  San  Francisco. 
As  we  entered  the  side  door  to  avoid  the  crowd, 
I  stopped  to  examine  a  table  piled  high  with 
rosaries  and  charms,  presided  over  by  a  weather* 
20 


A  MORNING  IN  GUANAJUATO 

beaten  old  woman,  and  covered  with  what  was 
once  an  altar  cloth  of  great  beauty,  embroidered 
in  silver  thread  and  silk.  It  was  just  faded  and 
dingy  enough  to  be  harmonious,  and  just  ragged 
enough  to  be  interesting.  In  the  bedecking  of 
the  sacred  edifice  for  the  festival  days  then 
approaching,  the  old  wardrobes  of  the  sacristy 
had  been  ransacked,  and  this  piece,  coming  to 
light,  had  been  thrown  over  the  plain  table  as  a 
background  to  the  religious  knickknacks. 

Instantly  a  dozen  schemes  to  possess  it  ran 
through  my  head.  After  all  sorts  of  propositions, 
embracing  another  cloth,  the  price  of  two  new 
ones,  and  a  fresh  table  thrown  in,  I  was  con- 
fronted with  this  proposition  :  — 

"  You  buy  everything  upon  it,  senor,  and 
you  can  take  the  table  and  covering  with  you." 

The  service  had  already  commenced.  I  could 
smell  the  burning  incense,  and  hear  the  tinkling 
of  the  altar  bell  and  the  burst  from  the  organ. 
The  door  by  which  we  entered  opened  into  a 
long  passage  running  parallel  with  the  church, 
and  connecting  with  the  sacristy,  which  ran  im- 
mediately behind  the  altar.  The  dividing  wall 
between  this  and  the  altar  side  of  the  church 
was  a  thin  partition  of  wood,  with  grotesque 
openings  near  the  ceiling.  Through  these  the 
sounds  of  the  service  were  so  distinct  that 

21 


A  WHITE  UMBRELLA  IN  MEXICO 

every  word  could  be  understood.  These  open- 
ings proved  to  be  between  the  backs  of  certain 
saints  and  carvings,  overlaid  with  gilt  and  form- 
ing the  reredos. 

Within  the  sacristy,  and  within  five  feet  of 
the  bishop  who  was  conducting  the  service,  and 
entirely  undisturbed  by  our  presence,  sat  four 
hungry  padres  at  a  comfortable  luncheon.  Each 
holy  father  had  a  bottle  of  red  wine  at  his  plate. 
Every  few  minutes  a  priest  would  come  in  from 
the  church  side  of  the  partition,  the  sacristan 
would  remove  his  vestments,  lay  them  away  in 
the  wardrobes,  and  either  robe  him  anew  or  hand 
him  his  shovel  hat  and  cane.  During  the  pro- 
cess they  all  chatted  together  in  the  most  uncon- 
cerned way  possible,  only  lowering  their  voices 
when  the  pauses  in  the  service  required  it. 

It  may  have  been  that  the  spiritual  tasks  of 
the  day  were  so  prolonged  and  continuous  that 
there  was  no  time  for  the  material,  and  that  it 
was  either  here  in  the  sacristy  or  go  hungry. 
Or  perhaps  it  lifted  for  me  one  corner  of  the 
sheet  which  covers  the  dead  body  of  the  reli- 
gion of  Mexico. 

These  corners,  however,  I  will  not  uncover. 

The  sun  shines  for  us  all ;  the  shadows  are 

cool  and  inviting ;   the  flower?  are  free  and 

fragrant;  the  people  courteous  and  hospitable 

22 


A  MORNING  IN  GUANAJUATO 

beyond  belief ;  the  land  the  most  picturesque 
and  enchanting. 

When  I  look  into  Matias's  sad  eyes  and  think 
to  what  a  life  of  poverty  and  suffering  he  is 
doomed,  and  what  his  people  have  endured 
for  ages,  these  ghosts  of  revolution,  misrule, 
cruelty,  superstition,  and  want  rise  up  and  con- 
front me,  and  although  I  know  that  beneath 
this  charm  of  atmosphere,  color,  and  courtesy 
there  lurks,  like  the  deadly  miasma  of  the  ra- 
vine, lulled  to  sleep  by  the  sunlight,  much  of 
degradation,  injustice,  and  crime,  still  I  will 
probe  none  of  it.  So  I  fill  Matias's  hand  full  of 
silver  and  copper  coins,  and  his  sad  eyes  full  of 
joyful  tears,  and  as  I  descend  the  rocky  hill  in 
the  evening  glow,  and  look  up  to  the  great  prison 
of  Guanajuato,  with  its  roof  fringed  with  rows 
of  prisoners  manacled  together,  and  given  this 
hour  of  fresh  air  because  of  the  sacredness  of 
the  day,  I  forget  their  chains  and  the  intrigue 
and  treachery  which  forged  many  of  them,  and 
see  only  the  purple  city  swimming  in  the  golden 
light,  and  the  deep  shadows  of  the  hills  behind 
it. 


23 


II 

AFTER  DARK  IN  SILAO 

ABALLERO  !  A  donde  va  usted  ?  " 

"To  Silao,  to  see  the  cathedral  lighted." 
Alone?" 

"Cierto!  unless  you  go." 

I  was  halfway  across  the  open  space  divid- 
ing the  railroad  from  the  city  of  Silao  when  I 
was  brought  to  a  standstill  by  this  inquiry. 
The  questioner  was  my  friend  Morgan,  an  Eng- 
lishman, who  had  lived  ten  years  in  the  coun- 
try and  knew  it  thoroughly. 

He  was  placed  here  in  charge  of  the  property 
of  the  road  the  day  the  last  spike  was  driven, 
—  a  short,  thickset,  clear  blue-eyed,  and  brown- 
bearded  Briton,  whose  word  was  law,  and 
whose  brawny  arm  enforced  it.  He  had  a  nat- 
ural taste  for  my  work,  and  we  soon  drifted 
together. 

"  Better  take  this,"  he  continued,  loosing  his 
belt  and  handing  me  its  contents,  a  row  of  car- 
tridges and  a  revolver. 
24 


AFTER  DARK  IN  SILAO 

"  Never  carried  one  in  my  life." 

"  Well,  you  will  now." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say,  Morgan,  that  I  can- 
not cross  this  flat  plain,  hardly  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  wide,  and  enter  the  city  in  safety  without 
being  armed  ?" 

"  I  mean  to  say,  mi  amigo,  that  the  moun- 
tains around  Silao  are  infested  with  bandits, 
outlaws,  and  thieves  ;  that  these  fellows  prowl 
at  night ;  that  you  are  a  stranger  and  recog- 
nized at  sight  as  an  American ;  that  twenty- 
four  hours  after  your  arrival  these  facts  were 
quietly  whispered  among  the  fraternity ;  that 
every  article  of  value  you  have  on  down  to 
your  collar-button  is  already  a  subject  of  dis- 
cussion and  appraisement ;  that  there  are  nine 
chances  in  ten  that  the  blind  cripple  who  sold 
you  dulces  this  morning  at  the  train  was  quietly 
making  an  inventory  of  your  valuables,  and 
that,  had  he  been  recognized  by  the  guard,  his 
legs  would  have  untwisted  themselves  in  a  min- 
ute ;  that  after  dark  in  Silao  is  quite  a  different 
thing  from  under  the  gaslight  in  Broadway ; 
and  that  unless  you  go  armed  you  cannot  go 
alone." 

"But,  Morgan,  there  is  not  a  tree,  stone, 
stump,  or  building  in  sight  big  enough  to  screen 
a  rat  behind.  You  can  see  even  in  the  starlight 

25 


A  WHITE  UMBRELLA  IN  MEXICO 

the  entrance  to  the  wide  street  leading  to  the 
cathedral." 

"  Make  no  mistake,  senor,  these  devils  start 
up  out  of  the  ground.  Strap  this  around  you 
or  stay  here.  Can  you  see  my  quarters  —  the 
small  house  near  the  Estacion  ?  Do  you  notice 
the  portico  with  the  sloping  roof?  Well,  my 
friend,  I  have  sat  on  that  portico  in  the  cool  of 
the  evening  and  looked  across  this  very  plain 
and  heard  cries  for  help,  and  the  next  morning 
at  dawn  have  seen  the  crowd  gathered  about  a 
poor  devil  with  a  gash  in  his  back  the  length  of 
your  hand." 

As  we  walked  through  the  dust  towards  the 
city,  Morgan  continued  :  — 

"  The  government  are  not  altogether  to  blame 
for  this  state  of  things.  They  have  done  their 
best  to  break  it  up,  and  they  have  succeeded 
to  a  great  extent.  In  Celaya  alone  the  jefe  po- 
litico showed  me  the  records  where  he  had  shot 
one  hundred  and  thirteen  bandits  in  less  than 
two  years.  He  does  not  waste  his  time  over 
judge  or  jury :  strings  them  along  in  a  row 
within  an  hour  after  they  are  caught  plunder- 
ing, then  leaves  them  two  days  above  ground 
as  a  warning  to  those  who  get  away.  Within  a 
year  to  cross  from  Silao  to  Leon  without  a  guard 
was  as  much  as  your  life  was  worth.  The  dili- 
26 


AFTER  DARK  IN  SILAO 

gence  was  robbed  almost  daily.  This  began  to 
be  a  matter  of  course,  and  passengers  reduced 
their  luggage  to  the  clothes  they  stood  in.  Fi- 
nally the  thieves  confiscated  these.  Two  years 
ago,  old  Don  Palacio  del  Monte,  whose  hacienda 
is  within  five  miles  of  here,  started  in  a  dili- 
gence one  morning  at  daylight  with  his  wife 
and  two  daughters  and  a  young  Mexican  named 
Marquando,  to  attend  a  wedding  feast  at  a 
neighboring  plantation  only  a  few  miles  distant. 
They  were  the  only  occupants.  An  hour  after 
sunrise,  while  dragging  up  a  steep  hill,  the 
coach  came  to  a  halt,  the  driver  was  pulled 
down  and  bound,  old  Palacio  and  Marquando 
covered  with  carbines,  and  every  rag  of  clothing 
stripped  from  the  entire  party.  Then  they  were 
politely  informed  by  the  chief,  who  was  after- 
wards caught  and  shot,  and  who  turned  out  to 
be  the  renegade  son  of  the  owner  of  the  very 
hacienda  where  the  wedding  festivities  were  to 
be  celebrated,  to  go  home  and  inform  their 
friends  to  bring  more  baggage  in  the  future  or 
some  of  them  might  catch  cold  ! 

"Marquando  told  me  of  it  the  week  after  it 
occurred.  He  was  still  suffering  from  the  mor- 
tification. His  description  of  the  fat  driver  crawl- 
ing up  into  his  seat,  and  of  the  courteous  old 
Mexican  standing  in  the  sunlight  looking  like  a 
27 


A  WHITE  UMBRELLA  IN  MEXICO 

scourged  mediaeval  saint,  and  of  the  dignified 
wave  of  his  hand  as  he  said  to  him,  'After 
you,  sefior,'  before  climbing  up  beside  the 
driver,  was  delightful.  I  laughed  over  it  for  a 
week." 

"  What  became  of  the  senora  and  the  girls  ?  " 
I  asked. 

"  Oh,  they  slid  in  through  the  opposite  door 
of  the  coach,  and  remained  in  seclusion  until 
the  driver  reached  an  adobe  hut  and  demanded 
of  a  peon  family  enough  clothes  to  get  the  party 
into  one  of  the  outbuildings  of  the  hacienda. 
There  they  were  rescued  by  their  friends." 

"And  Marquando  ?  "  I  asked, —  "did  he 
appear  at  the  wedding  ?  " 

"  No.  That  was  the  hardest  part  of  it.  Af- 
ter the  ladies  were  smuggled  into  the  house, 
Don  Palacio,  by  that  time  decorated  with  a 
straw  mat  and  a  sombrero,  called  Marquando 
aside.  '  Senor,'  he  said  with  extreme  gravity 
and  deep  pathos,  '  after  the  events  of  the  morn- 
ing it  will  be  impossible  for  us  to  recognize  each 
other  again.  I  entertain  for  you  personally  the 
most  profound  respect.  Will  you  do  me  the 
great  kindness  of  never  speaking  to  me  or  any 
member  of  my  family  after  to-day  ? '  Mar- 
quando bowed  and  withdrew.  A  few  months 
later  he  was  in  Leon.  The  governor  gave  a 
28 


AFTER  DARK  IN  SILAO 

ball.  As  he  entered  the  room  he  caught  sight  of 
Don  Palacio  surrounded  by  his  wife  and  daugh- 
ters. The  old  Mexican  held  up  his  hand,  the 
palm  towards  Marquando  like  a  barrier.  My 
friend  stopped,  bowed  to  the  floor,  mounted  his 
horse,  and  left  the  city.  It  cut  him  deeply,  too, 
for  he  is  a  fine  young  fellow,  and  one  of  the 
girls  liked  him." 

We  had  crossed  the  open  space  and  were  en- 
tering the  city.  Low  buildings  connected  by 
long  white  adobe  walls,  against  which  grew 
prickly  pears,  straggled  out  into  the  dusty  pla- 
teau. Crooning  over  earthen  pots  balanced  on 
smouldering  embers  sat  old  hags,  surrounded 
by  swarthy  children  watching  the  preparation 
of  their  evening  meal.  Turning  the  sharp  an- 
gle of  the  street,  we  stumbled  over  a  group  of 
peons  squatting  on  the  sidewalk,  their  backs  to 
the  wall,  muffled  to  their  eyes  in  their  zarapes, 
some  asleep,  others  motionless,  following  us 
with  their  eyes.  Soon  the  spire  of  la  parrti- 
qiria  loomed  up  in  the  starlight,  its  outlines 
brought  out  into  uncertain  relief  by  the  flicker- 
ing light  of  the  torches  blazing  in  the  market- 
place below.  Here  Morgan  stopped,  and,  point- 
ing to  a  slit  of  an  alley  running  between  two 
buildings  and  widening  out  into  a  square  court, 
said,— 

29 


A  WHITE  UMBRELLA  IN  MEXICO 

"  This  is  the  entrance  to  an  old  patio  long 
since  abandoned.  Some  years  ago  a  gang  of 
cutthroats  used  it  to  hide  their  plunder.  You 
can  see  how  easy  it  would  be  for  one  of  these 
devils  to  step  behind  you,  put  a  stiletto  be- 
tween your  shoulder  blades,  and, bundle  you  in 
out  of  sight." 

1  crossed  over  and  took  the  middle  of  the 
street.  Morgan  laughed. 

"  You  are  perfectly  safe  with  me,"  he  con- 
tinued, "for  I  am  known  every  where  and  would 
be  missed.  You  might  not.  Then  I  adopt  the 
custom  of  the  country  and  carry  an  extra  car- 
tridge, and  they  know  it.  But  you  would  be 
safe  here  anyway.  It  is  only  the  outskirts  of 
these  Mexican  towns  that  are  dangerous  to 
stroll  around  in  after  dark." 

There  is  a  law  in  Mexico  called  the  leydefuego 
—  the  law  of  fire.  It  is  very  easily  understood. 
If  a  convict  breaks  away  from  the  chain  gang 
he  takes  his  life  in  his  hands.  Instantly  every 
carbine  in  the  mounted  guard  is  levelled,  and 
a  rattling  fire  is  kept  up  until  he  either  drops, 
riddled  by  balls,  or  escapes  unhurt  in  the  crev- 
ices of  the  foothills.  Once  away  he  is  safe, 
and  cannot  be  rearrested  for  the  same  crime. 
Silao  has  a  number  of  these  birds  of  freedom, 
and  to  their  credit  be  it  said,  they  are  eminently 
30 


AFTER  DARK  IN  SILAO 

respectable  citizens.  If  he  is  overhauled  by  a 
ball,  the  pursuing  squad  detail  a  brace  of  con- 
victs to  dig  a  hole  in  the  softest  ground  within 
reach,  and  a  rude  wooden  cross  the  next  day 
tells  the  whole  story. 

If  a  brigand  has  a  misunderstanding  with  a 
citizen  regarding  the  ownership  of  certain  per- 
sonal effects,  the  exclusive  property  of  the  citi- 
zen, and  the  brigand  in  the  heat  of  the  debate 
becomes  careless  in  the  use  of  his  firearms,  the 
same  wooden  cross  announces  the  fact  with  an 
emphasis  that  is  startling.  Occurrences  like 
these  have  been  so  frequent  in  the  past  that  the 
country  around  Silao  reminds  one  of  an  aban- 
doned telegraph  system,  with  nothing  standing 
but  the  poles  and  cross-pieces. 

Morgan  imparted  this  last  information  from 
one  of  the  stone  seats  in  the  alameda  adjoining 
the  church  of  Santiago,  which  we  had  reached 
and  where  we  sat  quietly  smoking,  surrounded 
by  throngs  of  people  pushing  their  way  towards 
the  open  door  of  the  sacred  edifice.  We  threw 
away  our  cigarettes  and  followed  the  crowd. 

It  was  the  night  of  Good  Friday,  and  the  in- 
terior was  ablaze  with  the  light  of  thousands  of 
wax  candles  suspended  from  the  vaulted  roof 
by  fine  wires,  which  swayed  with  the  air  from 
the  great  doors,  while  scattered  through  this 


A  WHITE  UMBRELLA  IN  MEXICO 

sprinkling  of  stars  glistened  sheets  of  gold-leaf 
strung  on  threads  of  silk.  Ranged  along  the 
sides  of  the  church  upon  a  ledge  just  above  the 
heads  of  the  people  sparkled  a  curious  collection 
of  cut-glass  bottles,  decanters,  dishes,  toilet- 
boxes,  and  goblets  —  in  fact,  every  conceivable 
variety  of  domestic  glass.  Behind  these  in  small 
oil-cups  floated  burned  ends  of  candles  and 
tapers.  In  the  sacristy,  upon  a  rude  bier  cov- 
ered by  an  embroidered  sheet,  lay  the  wooden 
image  of  the  dead  Christ,  surrounded  by  crowds 
of  peons  and  Mexicans  passing  up  to  kiss  the 
painted  wounds  and  drop  a  few  centavos  for 
their  sins  and  shortcomings. 

As  we  passed  out  into  the  fresh  night  air,  the 
glare  of  a  torch  fell  upon  an  old  man  seated  by 
a  table,  selling  rosaries.  Morgan  leaned  against 
one  of  the  pillars  of  the  railing  surrounding  the 
court,  watched  the  traffic  go  on  for  a  few  min- 
utes, and  then,  pointing  to  the  entrance  of  the 
church,  through  which  streamed  the  great  flood 
of  light,  said,  — 

"  Into  that  open  door  goes  all  the  loose  money 
of  Mexico." 

When  we  reached  the  plaza  the  people  still 
thronged  the  streets.  Venders  sold  dulces, 
fruits,  candles,  and  the  thousand  and  one  knick- 
knacks  bought  in  holiday  times  ;  torches  stuck 
32 


AFTER  DARK  IN  SILAO 

in  the  ground  on  high  poles  flared  over  the  ala- 
meda ;  groups  of  natives  smoking  cigarettes 
chatted  gayly  near  the  fountain  ;  while  lovers 
in  pairs  disported  themselves  after  the  manner 
of  their  kind  under  the  trees.  One  young  In- 
dian girl  and  her  dusky  caballero  greatly  inter- 
ested me.  Nothing  seemed  to  disturb  them. 
They  cooed  away  in  the  full  glare  of  a  street 
lantern  as  unconscious  and  unconcerned  as  if  a 
roof  sheltered  them.  He  had  spread  his  blanket 
so  as  to  protect  her  from  the  cold  stone  bench. 
It  was  not  a  very  wide  zarape,  and  yet  there 
was  room  enough  for  two. 

The  poverty  of  the  pair  was  unmistakable. 
A  straw  sombrero,  cotton  shirt,  trousers,  and 
sandals  completed  his  outfit ;  a  chemise,  blue 
skirt,  scarlet  sash,  and  rebozo  twisted  about 
her  throat,  her  own.  This  humble  raiment  was 
clean  and  fresh,  and  the  red  rose  tucked  coquet- 
tishly  among  the  braids  of  her  purple-black 
hair  was  just  what  was  wanted  to  make  it  pic- 
turesque. 

Both  were  smoking  the  same  cigarette  and 
laughing  between  each  puff,  he  protesting  that 
she  should  have  two  whiffs  to  his  one,  at  v/hich 
there  would  be  a  little  kittenish  spatting,  end- 
ing in  his  having  his  own  way  and  kissing  her 
two  cheeks  for  punishment. 

33 


A  WHITE  UMBRELLA  IN  MEXICO 

With  us,  some  love  affairs  end  in  smoke ; 
here  they  seem  to  thrive  upon  it. 

Morgan,  however,  did  not  seem  to  appreciate 
the  love-making.  He  was  impatient  to  return 
to  the  station,  for  it  was  nearly  midnight. 

"  If  you  are  going  to  supervise  all  the  love 
affairs  in  Silao  you  might  as  well  make  a  night 
of  it,"  he  laughed.  So  we  turned  from  the 
plaza,  entered  a  broad  street,  and  followed  along 
a  high  wall  surrounding  a  large  house,  in  reality 
the  palace  of  Manuel  Gonzalez,  formerly  Presi- 
dent of  the  Republic.  Here  the  crowds  in  the 
street  began  to  thin  out.  By  the  time  we 
reached  another  turn  the  city  was  deserted. 
Morgan  struck  a  wax  taper  and  consulted  his 
watch. 

"  In  ten  minutes,  mi  amigo,  the  train  is  due 
from  Chihuahua.  1  must  be  on  hand  to  unlock 
the  freight-house.  We  will  make  a  short  cut 
through  here." 

The  moon  had  set,  leaving  to  the  flickering 
lanterns  at  the  street  corners  the  task  of  light- 
ing us  home.  I  stumbled  along,  keeping  close 
to  my  friend,  winding  in  and  out  of  lonely, 
crooked  streets,  under  black  archways,  and 
around  the  sharp  projecting  angles  of  low  adobe 
walls.  The  only  sound  besides  our  hurrying  foot- 


34 


AFTER  DARK  IN  SILAO 

steps  was  the  loud  crowing  of  a  cock  miscalcu- 
lating the  dawn. 

Suddenly  Morgan  pushed  aside  a  swinging 
wooden  door  framed  in  an  adobe  wall,  and  I 
followed  him  through  what  appeared  to  be  an 
abandoned  convent  garden.  He  halted  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  quadrangle,  felt  along  the 
whitewashed  wall,  shot  back  a  bolt,  and  held 
open  a  second  door.  As  1  closed  it  behind  me  a 
man  wrapped  in  a  cloak  stepped  from  a  niche 
in  the  wall  and  levelled  his  carbine.  Morgan 
sprang  back  and  called  out  to  me  in  a  sharp,  firm 
voice,  — 

"Standstill." 

I  glued  myself  to  the  spot.  In  fact,  the  only 
part  of  me  that  was  at  all  alive  was  my  imagi- 
nation. 

I  was  instantly  perforated,  stripped,  and 
lugged  off  to  the  mountains  on  a  burro's  back, 
where  select  portions  of  my  ears  were  sliced  off 
and  forwarded  to  my  friends  as  sight-drafts  on 
my  entire  worldly  estate.  While  I  was  calculat- 
ing the  chances  of  my  plunging  through  the 
door  and  escaping  by  the  garden,  this  came 
from  the  muffled  figure  :  — 

"  Quienvive?" 

"  La  liber  tad,"  replied  Morgan  quietly. 


35 


A  WHITE  UMBRELLA  IN  MEXICO 

"  Que  nacion?" 

"  Un  compatriot  a,"  answered  my  companion. 

The  carbine  was  lowered  slowly.  Morgan 
advanced,  mumbled  a  few  words,  called  to  me 
to  follow,  and  struck  out  boldly  across  the  plain 
to  the  station. 

"  Who  was  your  murderous  friend  ?  a  brig- 
and ?"  I  asked  when  I  had  recovered  my 
breath. 

"No;  one  of  the  Rurales,  or  civil  guards. 
They  are  the  salvation  of  the  country.  They 
challenge  every  man  crossing  their  beat  after 
ten  o'clock." 

"  And  if  you  do  not  halt  —  then  what  ?" 

"Then  say  a  short  prayer.  There  will  not 
be  time  for  a  long  one." 

As  we  reached  the  tracks  I  heard  the  whistle 
of  the  night  express.  Morgan  seized  a  lantern 
and  swung  it  above  his  head.  The  train 
stopped.  I  counted  all  my  bones  and  turned  in 
for  the  night. 


Ill 

THE  OPALS  OF  QUERETARO 

I  ARRIVED  with  a  cyclone.  To  be  exact, 
the  cyclone  was  ahead.  All  I  saw  as  I 
stepped  from  the  train  was  a  whirling  cloud  of 
dust,  through  which  the  roof  of  the  station  was 
dimly  outlined,  a  long  plank  walk,  and  a  string 
of  cabs. 

A  boy  emerged  from  the  cloud  and  grabbed 
my  bag. 

"Will  it  rain  ?"  I  asked  anxiously. 

"  No,  senior.   No  rain,  but  much  dust.'* 

It  was  a  dry  storm,  common  in  this  season 
and  section.  Compared  with  it  the  simoon  on 
the  Sahara  is  a  gentle  zephyr. 

When  the  boy  had  collected  the  balance  of 
my  belongings,  he  promptly  asked  me  two 
questions.  Would  I  visit  the  spot  where  Max- 
imilian was  shot,  and  would  I  buy  some  opals? 
The  first  was  to  be  accomplished  by  means  of 
a  cab ;  the  second  by  diving  into  his  trousers 
pocket  and  hauling  up  a  little  wad.  This  he 

37 


A  WHITE  UMBRELLA  IN  MEXICO 

unrolled,  displaying  half  a  teaspoonful  of  gems 
of  more  or  less  value  and  brilliancy. 

I  had  not  the  slightest  desire  to  see  the  spot, 
and  my  bank  account  was  entirely  too  limited 
for  opalescent  luxuries.  I  imparted  this  informa- 
tion, rubbing  both  eyes  and  breathing  through 
my  sleeve.  He  could  get  me  a  cab  and  a  hotel 
—  anywhere  out  of  this  simoon. 

"  But,  senior,  it  will  be  over  in  a  minute." 

Even  while  he  spoke  the  sun  sifted  through, 
the  blue  sky  appeared  faintly  overhead,  and 
little  whirls  of  funnel-shaped  dust  went  career- 
ing down  the  track  to  plague  the  next  town 
below. 

When  I  reached  the  plaza  the  air  was  deli- 
cious and  balmy,  and  the  fountains  under  the 
trees  cool  and  refreshing. 

If  one  has  absolutely  nothing  to  do,  Quere- 
taro  is  the  place  in  which  to  do  it.  If  he  suffers 
from  the  constitutional  disease  of  being  born 
tired,  here  is  the  place  for  him  to  rest.  The 
grass  grows  in  the  middle  of  the  streets ;  at 
every  corner  there  is  a  small  open  square  full 
of  trees  ;  under  each  tree  a  bench ;  on  every 
bench  a  wayfarer :  they  are  all  resting.  If  you 
interview  one  of  them  as  to  his  special  occupa- 
tion, he  will  revive  long  enough  to  search  among 
the  recesses  of  his  wardrobe  and  fish  out  various 
38 


THE  OPALS  OF  QUERETARO 

little  wads.  When  he  unwinds  the  skein  of 
dirty  thread  which  binds  one,  he  will  spill  out 
upon  his  equally  dirty  palm  a  thimbleful  of  the 
national  gems,  of  more  or  less  value. 

You  wonder  where  all  these  opalescent  seed 
pearls  come  from,  and  conclude  that  each  one  of 
these  weary  dealers  has  an  especial  hole  in  the 
ground  somewhere  which  he  visits  at  night. 
Hence  his  wads,  his  weariness,  and  his  daytime 
loaf. 

In  reply  to  your  inquiries  he  says,  in  a  vague 
sort  of  a  way,  "  Oh  !  from  the  mines  ;  "  but 
whether  they  are  across  the  mountains  or  in 
his  back  yard  you  never  know.  Of  one  thing 
you  are  convinced  :  to  be  retailed  by  the  wad, 
these  gems  must  be  wholesaled  by  the  bushel. 
You  can  hardly  jostle  a  man  in  Queretaro  who 
has  not  a  collection  somewhere  about  him.  The 
flower-woman  at  the  corner,  the  water-carrier 
with  his  red  jars,  the  cabby,  the  express  agent, 
the  policeman,  and  I  doubt  not  the  padre  and 
the  sacristan,  all  have  their  little  wads  tucked 
away  somewhere  in  their  little  pockets. 

And  yet  with  all  this  no  one  ever  saw,  within 
the  memory  of  the  oldest  inhabitant,  a  single 
stone  in  the  ear  or  on  the  finger  of  any  citi- 
zen of  Queretaro.  They  are  hoarded  for  the 
especial  benefit  of  the  stranger.  If  he  is  a  poor 

39 


A  WHITE  UMBRELLA  IN  MEXICO 

stranger  and  has  but  one  peseta,  it  makes  no 
difference,  he  must  have  an  opal,  and  the  spoon- 
ful is  raked  over  until  a  little  one  for  a  peseta 
is  found.  Quite  an  electric  light  of  a  gem  can 
be  purchased  for  five  dollars. 

The  spot  and  the  opal  are,  however,  the  only 
drawbacks  to  the  stranger,  and  even  then,  if  it 
becomes  known  that  upon  no  possible  condition 
could  you  be  induced  to  climb  that  forlorn  hill, 
halfway  up  which  the  poor  emperor  was  rid- 
dled to  death,  and  that  you  have  been  born  not 
only  tired  but  with  the  superstition  that  opals 
are  unlucky,  then  by  a  kind  of  freemasonry  the 
word  is  passed  around,  and  you  are  spared,  and 
welcomed.  This  was  my  experience.  The  well- 
known  poverty  of  the  painter  the  world  over 
—  instantly  recognized  when  I  opened  my  um- 
brella—  assisted  me,  no  doubt,  in  establishing 
this  relation. 

But  the  charm  of  Queretaro  is  not  confined 
to  its  grass-grown  streets.  The  churches  are 
especially  interesting.  That  of  Santa  Cruz  is 
entirely  unique,  particularly  its  interior  adorn- 
ment. Besides,  there  is  a  great  aqueduct,  five 
miles  long,  built  on  stone  arches,  —  the  most 
important  work  of  its  kind  in  Mexico,  —  sup- 
plying fresh,  cool  water  from  the  mountains,  the 
greatest  of  all  blessings  in  a  thirsty  land.  Then 
40 


THE  OPALS  OF  QUERETARO 

there  are  scores  of  fountains  scattered  through 
the  city,  semi-tropical  plants  in  the  plazas, 
palms  and  bananas  over  the  walks,  and  on  the 
edge  of  the  city  a  delightful  alameda,  filled  with 
trees  and  embowered  in  roses.  The  flowers  are 
free  to  whoever  will  gather.  Moreover,  on  the 
corners  of  the  streets,  under  the  arching  palms, 
sit  Indian  women  selling  water  from  great  red 
earthen  jars. 

With  that  delicate,  refined  taste  which  char- 
acterizes these  people  in  everything  they  touch, 
the  rims  of  these  jars  are  wreathed  with  pop- 
pies, while  over  their  sides  hang  festoons  of 
leaves.  The  whole  has  a  refreshing  look  which 
must  be  enjoyed  to  be  appreciated.  I  put  down 
half  a  centavo,  the  smallest  of  copper  coins,  and 
up  came  a  glass  of  almost  ice-cold  water  from 
the  jars  of  soft-baked  porous  clay. 

Then  there  is  the  church  of  Santa  Clara,  a 
smoky,  dingy  old  church,  with  sunken  floors 
and  a  generally  dilapidated  appearance  within  — 
until  you  begin  to  analyze  its  details.  Imagine 
a  door  leading  from  the  main  body  of  the  church 
—  it  is  not  large  —  to  the  sacristy.  The  door 
proper  is  the  inside  beading  of  an  old  picture 
frame.  Across  the  top  is  a  heavy  silk  curtain 
of  faded  pomegranate.  Around  the  beading  ex- 
tend the  several  members  of  a  larger  and  still 


A  WHITE  UMBRELLA  IN  MEXICO 

larger  frame,  in  grooves,  flutes,  scrolls,  and 
rich  elaborate  carving  clear  to  the  ceiling,  the 
whole  forming  one  enormous  frame  of  solid  gilt. 
In  and  out  of  this  yellow  gold  door  little  black 
dots  of  priests  and  penitents  sway  the  pome- 
granate curtain,  looped  back  to  let  them  pass. 
To  the  right  rises  a  high  choir  loft  overlaid 
with  gold-leaf.  Scattered  about  on  the  walls, 
unplaced,  as  it  were,  hang  old  pictures  and 
tattered  banners.  On  the  left  stands  the  altar, 
raised  above  the  level  of  the  church,  surrounded 
by  threadbare  velvet  chairs,  and  high  candela- 
bra resting  on  the  floor,  holding  giant  candles. 
Above  these  hang  dingy  old  lamps  of  exquisite 
design.  The  light  struggles  through  the  win- 
dows, begrimed  with  dust.  The  uncertain 
benches  are  polished  smooth.  At  the  far  end  a 
sort  of  partition  of  open  wooden  slats  shuts  off 
the  altar  rail.  Behind  this  screen  is  stored  a 
lumber  of  old  furniture,  great  chests,  wooden 
images,  and  the  abandoned  and  worn-out  para- 
phernalia of  religious  festivals. 

Yet  with  all  this  Santa  Clara  is  the  most  de- 
lightfully picturesque  church  interior  one  can 
meet  with,  the  world  over.  Some  day  they  will 
take  up  a  collection,  or  an  old  Don  will  die  and 
leave  a  pot  of  money  "to  restore  and  beautify 
the  most  holy  and  sacred  church  of  Santa  Clara," 
42 


THE  OPALS  OF  QUERETARO 

and  the  fiends  will  enter  in  and  close  the  church, 
and  pull  down  the  old  pictures  and  throw  away 
the  lamps,  chairs,  and  candlesticks,  and  white- 
wash the  walls,  regild  the  huge  frame  of  the 
sacristy  door,  and  make  dust-rags  of  the  pome- 
granate silk.  Then  they  will  hang  a  green  and 
purple  raw  silk  terror,  bordered  with  silver 
braid,  in  its  place,  panel  the  whitewashed 
walls  in  red  stripes,  bracket  pressed-glass  kero- 
sene lamps  on  the  columns,  open  the  edifice  to 
the  public,  and  sing  Te  Deums  for  a  month,  in 
honor  of  the  donor. 

This  is  not  an  exaggeration.  Step  into  the 
church  of  San  Francisco,  now  the  cathedral  of 
Queretaro,  within  half  a  dozen  squares  of  this 
lovely  old  church  of  Santa  Clara,  and  see  the 
ruin  that  has  been  wrought.  I  forget  the  name 
of  the  distinguished  old  devotee  who  contributed 
his  estate  to  destroy  this  once  beautiful  church, 
but  his  soul  ought  to  do  penance  in  purgatory 
until  the  fingers  of  time  shall  have  regilded 
its  interior  with  the  soft  bloom  of  the  dust  and 
mould  of  centuries,  and  the  light  of  countless 
summers  shall  have  faded  into  pale  harmonies 
the  impious  contrasts  he  left  behind  him. 

I  often  think  what  a  shock  it  must  be  to  the 
good  taste  of  nature  when  one  whitewashes  an 
old  fence.  For  years  the  sun  bleached  it,  and 

43 


A  WHITE  UMBRELLA  IN  MEXICO 

the  winds  polished  it  until  each  fibre  shone  like 
soft  threads  of  gray  satin.  Then  the  little  li- 
chens went  to  work  and  filled  up  all  the  cracks 
and  crannies,  and  wove  gray  and  black  films 
of  lace  over  the  rails,  and  the  dew  came  every 
night  and  helped  the  green  moss  to  bind  the 
edges  with  velvet,  and  the  worms  gnawed  the 
splinters  into  holes,  and  the  weeds  clustered 
about  it  and  threw  their  tall  blossoms  against 
it,  and  where  there  was  found  the  top  of  a  par- 
ticularly ugly  old  hewn  post  a  little  creeper  of 
a  vine  peeped  over  the  stone  wall  and  saw  its 
chance  and  called  out,  "  Hold  on  ;  I  can  hide 
that,"  and  so  shot  out  a  long,  delicate  spray  of 
green,  which  clung  faithfully  all  summer  and 
left  a  crown  of  gold  behind  when  it  died  in  the 
autumn.  And  yet  here  comes  this  vandal  with 
a  scythe  and  a  bucket,  sweeps  away  all  this 
beauty  in  an  hour,  and  leaves  behind  only  its 
grinning  skeleton. 

A  man  who  could  whitewash  an  old  worm 
fence  would  be  guilty  of  any  crime,  —  even  of 
boiling  a  peach. 

But  with  the  exception  of  the  cathedral,  this 
imp  of  a  bucket  has  fastened  very  little  of  his 
fatal  work  upon  Queretaro. 

When  the  sun  goes  down  behind  the  trees 
of  the  plaza  the  closely  barred  shutters,  closed 

44 


THE  OPALS  OF  QUERETARO 

all  day,  are  bowed  open,  and  between  the  slats 
you  can  catch  the  flash  of  a  pair  of  dark  eyes. 
Later,  the  fair  owners  come  out  on  the  balco- 
nies one  by  one,  their  dark  hair  so  elaborately 
wrought  that  you  know  at  a  glance  how  the 
greater  part  of  the  afternoon  has  been  spent. 
When  the  twilight  steals  on,  the  doors  of  these 
lonely  and  apparently  uninhabited  houses  are 
thrown  wide  open,  displaying  the  exquisite  gar- 
dens blooming  in  the  patios,  and  through  the 
gratings  of  the  always  closed  iron  gates  you  get 
glimpses  of  easy-chairs  and  hammocks  with  in- 
dented pillows,  telling  the  story  of  the  day's 
exertion.  In  the  twilight  you  pass  these  same 
pretty  sefioritas,  in  groups  of  threes  and  fours, 
strolling  through  the  parks,  dressed  in  pink  and 
white  lawn,  with  Spanish  veils  and  fans,  their 
dainty  feet  clad  in  white  stockings  and  red- 
heeled  slippers. 

One  makes  friends  easily  among  a  people  so 
isolated.  When  it  is  once  understood  that  al- 
though an  American  you  are  not  connected  with 
the  railway,  their  hospitality  is  most  cordial. 

"1  like  you,"  said  an  old  man  seated  next 
me  on  a  bench  in  the  plaza  one  afternoon,  "  be- 
cause you  are  an  American  and  do  not  eat  the 
tobacco.  Caramba  !  that  is  horrible  !  " 

My  trap,  moreover,  is  a  constant  source  of 

45 


A  WHITE  UMBRELLA  IN  MEXICO 

astonishment  and  amusement.  No  sooner  is  the 
umbrella  raised  and  I  get  fairly  to  work  than  1 
am  surrounded  by  a  crowd  so  dense  1  cannot 
see  a  rod  ahead.  It  is  so  rare  that  a  painter  is 
seen  in  the  streets  —  many  people  tell  me  that 
they  never  saw  one  at  work  before  —  that  often 
I  rise  from  my  stool  in  despair  at  the  backs  and 
shoulders  in  front.  I  then  pick  out  some  one  or 
two  having  authority,  and  stand  them  guard 
over  each  wing  of  the  half  circle,  and  so  the 
sketch  is  completed. 

This  old  fellow  who  shared  my  bench  in  the 
plaza  had  served  me  in  this  capacity  in  the 
morning,  and  our  acquaintance  soon  ripened 
into  an  intimacy.  He  was  a  clean,  cool,  breezy- 
looking  old  fellow,  with  a  wide  straw  sombrero 
shading  a  ruddy  face  framed  in  a  bushy,  snow- 
white  beard.  His  coat,  trousers,  shirt,  and  san- 
dals were  all  apparently  cut  from  the  same  piece 
of  white  cotton  cloth.  The  only  bit  of  color 
about  him  below  his  rosy  face  was  a  zarape. 
This,  from  successive  washings,  —  an  unusual 
treatment,  by  the  way,  for  zarapes,  —  had  faded 
to  a  delicate  pink. 

"  Not  made  now,"  said  he,  in  answer  to  my 

inquiring  glance.    "  This  zarape  belonged  to  my 

father,  and  was  woven  by  my  grandmother  on 

a  hand  loom.   You  can  get  plenty  at  the  store. 

46 


THE  OPALS  OF  QUERETARO 

They  are  made  by  steam,  but  I  cannot  part 
with  this.   It  is  for  my  son." 

I  reluctantly  gave  it  up.  It  was  the  best  I 
had  seen.  When  he  stood  up  and  wrapped  it 
about  him  he  was  as  delicious  a  bit  of  color  as 
one  would  find  in  a  day's  journey.  Moreover, 
the  old  fellow  was  a  man  of  information.  He 
knew  the  history  of  the  founding  of  the  city 
and  the  building  of  the  great  aqueduct  by  the 
Marques  de  la  Villa  del  Villar  de  la  Aguila,  who 
defrayed  most  of  the  expenses,  and  whose  effigy 
decorates  the  principal  fountain.  He  saw  Max- 
imilian and  Generals  Miramon  and  Mejia  leave 
the  convent  of  Santa  Cruz  the  morning  of  their 
execution,  June  19,  1867 ;  and  remembered 
perfectly  the  war  with  the  United  States  and 
the  day  the  treaty  of  peace  was  ratified  with 
Congress  in  1848.  Finally  he  tells  me  that 
pulque  was  first  discovered  in  Queretaro,  and 
insists  that,  as  this  is  my  last  day  in  the  city, 

—  for  on  the  morrow  I  go  to  Aguas  Calientes, 

—  I  must  go  to  the  posada  opposite  and  have  a 
mug  with  him  ;  that  when  I  reach  the  great 
city  of  Mexico  I  will  think  of  this  pulque,  the 
most  delicious  in  the  republic,  and  finding  none 
to  compare,  will  come  back  to  Queretaro  for  its 
mate,  and  so  he  will  see  me  again. 

We  have  the  pulque,  the  old  man  drinking 

47 


A  WHITE  UMBRELLA  IN  MEXICO 

my  share,  and  on  our  way  to  the  station  pass 
through  the  market-place.  My  last  view  of  this 
delightful  old  city  is  across  this  market-place, 
with  the  domed  buildings  in  the  background 
silhouetted  against  the  evening  sky.  All  over 
the  open  space  where  the  rush  and  traffic  of  the 
morning  had  held  sway  now  lounged  and  slept 
hundreds  of  tired  people,  some  on  the  steps  sur- 
rounding the  square  stone  column  centring  the 
plaza,  others  flat  on  the  pavement.  Here  they 
will  doze  until  the  sun  looks  at  them  from  over 
the  Cerro  de  las  Campafias.  Then  they  will 
shake  themselves  together,  and  each  one  will 
go  in  search  of  his  daily  avocation.  It  is  safe  to 
say  that  not  one  in  ten  ever  finds  it. 


48 


IV 
SOME  PEONS  AT  AGUAS  CALIENTES 

BLINDING  sunlight;  a  broad  road  ankle 
deep  in  dust ;  a  double  row  of  great  trees 
with  branches  like  twisted  cobras ;  inky  blue- 
black  shadows  stencilled  on  the  gray  dust,  re- 
peating the  tree  forms  above  ;  a  long,  narrow 
canal,  but  a  few  feet  wide,  half  filled  with  wa- 
ter, from  which  rise  little  whiffs  of  hot  steam  ; 
beside  it  a  straggling  rude  stone  wall  fringed 
with  bushes.  In  the  middle  distance,  through 
vistas  of  tree  trunks,  glimpses  of  brown  fields 
fading  away  into  pale  pink,  violet,  and  green. 
In  the  dim  blue  beyond,  the  dome  and  towers 
of  a  church,  surmounting  little  spots  of  yellow, 
cream  white,  and  red,  broken  with  patches  of 
dark  green,  —  locating  bits  of  the  town,  —  with 
orange  groves  between. 

Long  strings  of  burros  crawl  into  the  city 
along  this  highway,  loaded  down  with  great 
bundles  of  green  fodder  ;  undulating  masses  of 
yellow  dust  drift  over  it,  which  harden  into 
droves  of  sheep  as  they  pass. 

49 


A  WHITE  UMBRELLA  IN  MEXICO 

Shuffling  along  its  edges,  hugging  the  inter- 
mittent shadows,  stroll  groups  of  natives  in 
twos  and  threes  ;  the  women  in  straw  hats  with 
plaited  hair,  their  little  children  slung  to  their 
backs,  the  men  in  zarapes  and  sandals,  carrying 
crates  on  their  shoulders  packed  with  live  poul- 
try and  cheap  pottery. 

Such  was  my  first  glance  at  Aguas  Calientes. 
But  there  is  something  more.  To  the  left,  along 
the  whole  length  of  the  canal  or  sluiceway,  as 
far  as  the  eye  can  reach,  are  scattered  hundreds  of 
natives  of  both  sexes,  and  all  ages,  lining  the 
water's  edge  and  disporting  themselves  in  every 
conceivable  state  of  deshabille.  In  fact,  it  might 
as  well  be  stated  that  the  assemblage  is  divided 
into  two  classes,  those  who  have  something  on 
and  those  who  have  nothing.  Five  hundred  of 
the  descendants  of  Montezuma  quietly  taking 
their  baths  at  high  noon  on  a  public  highway, 
with  only  such  privacy  as  the  Republic  of  Mex- 
ico and  the  blue  sky  of  heaven  afford  ! 

Old  men  hobble  along  the  roadside,  turn  off 
to  the  left,  select  a  convenient  bush  as  a  clothes- 
rack,  scale  off  what  scanty  raiment  they  carry 
with  them,  and  slide  turtle-like  into  the  warm 
water.  Young  Indian  girls  in  bunches  of  half  a 
dozen  sit  by  the  canal  and  comb  out  their  wavy 
black  hair,  glossy  with  wet,  while  they  chat 

50 


SOME  PEONS  AT  AGUAS  CALIENTES 

merrily  with  their  friends,  whose  heads  bob  up 
over  the  brink,  and  whose  bodies  simmer  at  a 
temperature  of  90°.  Whole  families  soak  in 
groups,  sousing  their  babies  in  the  warm  water 
and  draining  them  on  the  bank,  where  they 
glisten  in  the  dazzling  sunlight  like  bronzed 
Cupids.  Now  and  then  a  tall,  straight  young 
Indian  turns  aside  from  out  the  dust,  winds  his 
zarape  about  him,  and  protected  by  its  folds 
unmakes  his  toilet,  and  disappears  over  the 
edge. 

Up  and  down  this  curious  inland  Long  Branch 
rows  of  heads  bob  up  from  the  sluiceway  and 
smile  good-naturedly  as  I  draw  near.  They  are 
not  abashed  or  disturbed  in  the  slightest  degree  ; 
they  are  only  concerned  lest  I  seek  to  crowd 
them  from  their  places,  theirs  by  right  of  oc- 
cupancy. 

Even  the  young  women  lying  on  the  bank  in 
the  shade,  with  one  end  of  a  zarape  tossed  over 
their  backs,  their  only  other  garment  washed 
and  drying  in  the  sun,  seem  more  interested 
in  the  sketch  trap  than  in  him  who  carries  it. 
It  is  one  of  the  customs  of  the  country. 

It  is  true  that  near  the  springs  above,  within 
a  mile  of  this  spot,  there  is  a  small  pond  filled 
from  the  overflow  of  the  baths  adjoining,  which 
they  can  use  and  sometimes  do,  but  the  privacy 


A  WHITE  UMBRELLA  IN  MEXICO 

is  none  the  greater.  It  is  equally  true  that  down 
the  road  nearer  the  city  there  are  also  the  "  Ba- 
ftos  Grandes,"  where  for  one  peseta — about 
twenty -five  cents  —  they  can  obtain  a  bath  with 
all  the  encircling  privacy  of  stone  walls,  and 
with  the  additional  comforts  of  a  crash  towel, 
one  foot  square,  and  a  cake  of  soap  of  the  size 
and  density  of  a  grapeshot.  But  then,  the  wages 
of  a  native  for  a  whole  day's  work  is  less  than 
one  peseta,  and  when  he  is  lucky  enough  to  get 
this,  every  centavo  in  it  is  needed  for  the  in- 
side of  his  dust-covered  body. 

Nor  can  he  utilize  his  surplus  clothing  as  a 
shield  and  cover.  He  has  but  one  suit,  a  white 
shirt  and  a  pair  of  cotton  trousers.  Naturally 
he  falls  back  upon  his  zarape,  often  handling  it 
as  skilfully  and  effectively  as  the  Indian  women 
on  the  steps  leading  to  the  sacred  Ganges  do 
their  gorgeous  colored  tunics,  slipping  the  dry 
one  over  the  wet  without  much  more  than  a 
glimpse  of  finger  and  toe. 

All  these  thoughts  ran  through  my  head  as 
I  unlimbered  my  trap,  opened  my  white  um- 
brella, and  put  up  my  easel  to  paint  the  curious 
scene. 

"  Buenos  dias,  sehor"  came  a  voice  over  my 
shoulder.  I  looked  up  and  into  the  dark  eyes  of 
a  swarthy  Mexican,  who  was  regarding  me  with 
52 


SOME  PEONS  AT  AGUAS  CALIENTES 

much  the  same  air  as  one  would  a  street  ped- 
dler preparing  to  exhibit  his  wares. 

"Does  everybody  hereabout  bathe  in  the 
open  air  ?  "  I  ventured  to  ask. 

"  Why  not  ?  It  is  either  here  or  not  at  all," 
he  replied. 

I  continued  at  work,  ruminating  over  the 
strange  surroundings,  the  query  unanswered. 

Why  not,  in  fact  ?  A  tropical  sun,  clouds  of 
dust  dry  as  powder  and  fine  as  smoke,  air  and 
water  free,  —  nothing  else  in  their  life  of  sla- 
very. 

One  has  only  to  look  into  these  sad  faces  to 
read  the  history  of  this  patient,  uncomplaining 
race,  or  to  watch  them  as  they  sit  for  hours 
in  the  shadow  of  some  great  building,  motion- 
less, muffled  to  the  mouth  in  their  zarapes  and 
rebozos,  their  eyes  looking  straight  ahead  as  if 
determined  to  read  the  future,  — to  appreciate 
their  helplessness. 

From  the  days  of  Cortez  down  to  the  time 
of  Diaz,  they  have  been  humiliated,  degraded, 
and  enslaved  ;  all  their  patriotism,  self-reliance, 
and  independence  have  long  since  been  crushed 
out.  They  are  a  serving  people,  set  apart  and 
kept  apart  by  a  caste  as  defined  and  rigid  as 
divides  society  to-day  in  Hindoostan  —  infi- 
nitely more  severe  than  ever  existed  in  the 

53 


A  WHITE  UMBRELLA  IN  MEXICO 

most  benighted  section  of  our  own  country  in 
the  old  plantation  days. 

They  have  inherited  nothing  in  the  past  but 
poverty  and  suffering,  and  expect  nothing  in 
the  future.  To  sleep,  to  awake,  to  be  hungry, 
to  sleep  again.  Sheltered  by  adobe  huts,  sleep- 
ing upon  coarse  straw  mats,  their  only  utensils 
the  rude  earthen  vessels  they  make  themselves, 
their  daily  food  but  bruised  corn  pounded  in  a 
stone  mortar,  they  pass  their  lives  awaiting  the 
inevitable,  without  hope  and  without  ambition. 

"  As  a  rule,"  says  Consul-General  Strother 
(Porte  Crayon),  "  none  of  the  working  classes 
of  Mexico  have  any  idea  of  present  economy  or 
of  providing  for  the  future.  The  lives  of  most 
of  them  seem  to  be  occupied  in  obtaining  food 
and  amusement  for  the  passing  hour,  without 
either  hope  or  desire  for  a  better  future." 

David  A.  Wells,  in  his  terse  and  pithy 
"  Study  of  Mexico,"  speaking  of  the  haciendas, 
and  their  peon  labor,  says  :  — 

"  The  owners  of  these  large  Mexican  estates, 
who  are  generally  men  of  wealth  and  educa- 
tion, rarely  live  upon  them,  but  make  their 
homes  in  the  city  of  Mexico  or  in  Europe,  and 
intrust  the  management  of  their  property  to  a 
superintendent,  who,  like  the  owner,  considers 
himself  a  gentleman,  and  whose  chief  business 

54 


SOME  PEONS  AT  AGUAS  CALIENTES 

is  to  keep  the  peons  in  debt,  or,  what  is  the 
same  thing,  in  slavery.  Whatever  work  is 
done  is  performed  by  the  peons,  —  in  whose 
veins  Indian  blood  predominates,  —  in  their 
own  way  and  in  their  own  time.  .  .  .  Without 
being  bred  to  any  mechanical  profession,  the 
peons  make  and  repair  nearly  every  instrument 
or  tool  that  is  used  upon  the  estate,  and  this, 
too,  without  the  use  of  a  forge,  not  even  of 
bolts  and  nails.  The  explanation  of  such  an 
apparently  marvellous  result  is  to  be  found  in 
a  single  word,  or  rather  material,  rawhide,  — 
with  which  the  peon  feels  himself  qualified  to 
meet  almost  any  constructive  emergency,  from 
the  framing  of  a  house  to  the  making  of  a  loom, 
the  mending  of  a  gun,  or  the  repair  of  a  broken 
leg." 

It  is  not,  therefore,  from  lack  of  intelligence, 
or  ingenuity,  or  capacity,  that  the  condition  of 
these  descendants  of  the  Aztec  warriors  is  so 
hopeless,  but  rather  from  the  social  isolation  to 
which  they  are  subjected,  and  which  cuts  them 
off  from  every  influence  that  makes  the  white 
man  their  superior. 

So  I  worked  on,  pondering  over  this  hopeless 
race,  outcasts  and  serfs  in  a  land  once  their  own, 
and  thinking  of  the  long  account  of  cruelty  and 
selfishness  which  stood  against  the  Spanish 

55 


A  WHITE  UMBRELLA  IN  MEXICO 

nation,  when  suddenly  from  beneath  my  white 
umbrella  I  noticed  three  Indians  rise  from  the 
ground  near  the  canal,  stand  apart  from  their 
fellows,  and  walk  towards  me.  As  1  lifted  my 
eyes  they  hesitated,  then,  as  if  gathering  cour- 
age, again  advanced  cautiously  until  they  stood 
within  a  dozen  yards  of  my  easel.  Here  they 
squatted  in  the  dust,  the  three  in  a  row,  their 
zarapes  half  covering  their  faces.  I  laid  down 
my  palette  and  beckoned  them  to  me.  They 
advanced  smiling,  raised  their  sombreros  with 
an  "A  Dios,  senor,"  crouched  down  on  their 
haunches,  a  favorite  attitude,  and  watched 
every  movement  of  my  brush  with  the  deepest 
interest,  exchanging  significant  and  appreciative 
glances  as  I  dotted  in  the  figures.  Not  one 
opened  his  lips.  Silent  and  grave  as  the  stone 
gods  of  their  ancestors  sat  they,  wholly  absorbed 
in  a  revelation  as  astounding  to  them  as  a  vi- 
sion from  an  unknown  world. 

Presently  a  great  flock  of  sheep  wrinkled  past 
me,  shutting  out  my  view,  and  I  reversed  my 
canvas  to  shield  it,  and  waited  for  the  dust  to 
settle.  During  the  pause  I  slipped  my  hand  into 
the  side  pocket  of  my  blouse,  drew  out  my 
cigarette  case,  and,  touching  the  spring,  handed 
its  open  contents  to  the  three  Indians. 

It  was  curious  to  see  how  they  received  the 
56 


SOME  PEONS  AT  AGUAS  CALIENTES 

slight  courtesy,  and  with  what  surprise,  hesi- 
tancy, and  genuine  delight  they  looked  at  the 
open  case.  It  was  as  if  you  had  stopped  a  crip- 
pled beggar  on  the  road,  and,  having  relieved 
his  wants,  had  lifted  him  up  beside  you  and 
returned  him  to  his  hovel  in  your  carriage. 

Each  man  helped  himself  daintily  to  my  cigar- 
ettes, laying  them  on  the  palm  of  his  hand,  and 
then  watched  me  closely.  I  selected  my  own, 
touched  my  match-safe,  and  passed  the  lighted 
taper  to  the  Indian  nearest  me.  Instantly  they 
all  uncovered,  placing  their  sombreros  in  the 
dust,  and  gravely  accepted  the  light.  When  I 
had  exhausted  its  flickering  flame  upon  my  own 
cigarette,  and  taken  my  first  whiff,  they  re- 
placed their  hats  with  the  same  sort  of  respect- 
ful silence  one  sometimes  sees  in  a  crowded 
street  when  a  priestly  procession  passes.  It  was 
not  a  matter  of  form  alone.  It  did  not  seem  to 
be  simply  the  acknowledgment  of  perhaps  the 
most  trivial  courtesy  one  can  offer  another  in  a 
Spanish  country.  There  was  something  more 
that  lurked  around  the  corners  of  their  mouths 
and  kindled  in  their  eyes,  which  said  to  me  but 
too  plainly,  — 

"This  stranger  is  a  white  man,  and  yet  he 
does  not  despise  us." 

When   the  sketch  was  finished,   the   trap 

57 


A  WHITE  UMBRELLA  IN  MEXICO 

packed,  and  I  turned  to  retrace  my  steps  to  my 
lodgings,  all  three  arose  to  their  feet,  unwound 
their  zarapes,  and  trailed  them  in  the  dust.  I 
can  see  them  now,  standing  uncovered  in  the 
sunlight,  and  hear  their  low,  soft  voices  calling 
after  me,  — 

"  Con  Dios  va  listed,  mi  amigo." 

I  continued  my  rambles,  following  the  high- 
way into  the  city,  idling  about  the  streets,  and 
jotting  down  queer  bits  of  architecture  and  odd 
figures  in  my  sketch-book.  I  stopped  long 
enough  to  examine  the  high  saddles  of  a  pair  of 
horses  tethered  outside  a  fonda,  their  owners 
drinking  pulque  within,  and  then  crossed  over 
to  where  some  children  were  playing  "  bull- 
fight." 

When  the  sun  went  down  I  strolled  into  the 
beautiful  garden  of  San  Marcos  and  sat  me 
down  on  one  of  the  stone  benches  surrounding 
the  fountain.  Here,  after  bathing  my  face  and 
hands  in  the  cool  water  of  the  basin,  I  rested 
and  talked  to  the  gardener. 

He  was  an  Indian,  quite  an  old  man,  and  had 
spent  most  of  his  life  here.  The  garden  be- 
longed to  the  city,  and  he  was  paid  two  pesetas 
a  day  to  take  care  of  his  part  of  it.  If  I  would 
come  in  the  evening  the  benches  would  be  full. 

58 


SOME  PEONS  AT  AGUAS  CAL1ENTES 

There  were  many  beautiful  senoritas  in  Aguas 
Calientes,  and  on  Sunday  there  would  be  mu- 
sic. But  I  must  wait  until  April  if  I  wanted  to 
see  the  garden,  and  in  fact  the  whole  city  in  its 
gala  dress.  Then  would  be  celebrated  the  fiesta 
of  San  Marcos,  their  patron  saint,  strings  of 
lanterns  hung  and  lighted,  the  fountains  play- 
ing, music  everywhere,  and  crowds  of  people 
from  all  the  country  around,  even  from  the 
great  city  of  Mexico,  and  as  far  north  as  Zacate- 
cas.  Then  he  tucked  a  cluster  of  azaleas  into 
the  strap  of  my  "  trap  "  and  insisted  on  going 
with  me  to  the  corner  of  the  cathedral,  so  that 
I  should  not  miss  the  turn  in  the  next  street 
that  led  to  the  pottery  market. 

All  the  markets  of  Aguas  Calientes  are  inter- 
esting, for  the  country  round  about  is  singu- 
larly rich  and  fertile,  and  fruits  and  vegetables 
are  raised  in  abundance.  The  pottery  market  is 
especially  so.  It  is  held  in  a  small  open  square 
near  the  general  market,  surrounded  by  high 
buildings.  The  pottery  is  piled  in  great  heaps 
on  the  ground,  and  the  Indian  women,  shel- 
tered by  huge  square  and  octagon  umbrellas  of 
coarse  matting,  sit  all  day  serving  their  cus- 
tomers. At  night  they  burn  torches.  All  the 
other  markets  are  closed  at  noon.  The  pottery 
is  very  cheap,  a  few  centavos  covering  the  cost 

59 


A  WHITE  UMBRELLA  IN  MEXICO 

of  almost  any  single  piece  of  moderate  size,  and 
one  peseta  making  you  master  of  the  most  im- 
portant specimen  in  a  collection. 

Each  province,  in  fact  almost  every  village 
in  Mexico,  produces  a  ware  having  more  or  less 
distinctly  marked  characteristics.  In  Guadala- 
jara the  pottery  is  gray,  soft-baked,  and  un- 
glazed,  but  highly  polished  and  often  decorated 
with  stripings  of  silver  and  gold  bronze.  In 
Zacatecas  the  glaze  is  as  hard  and  brilliant  as 
a  piano  top,  and  the  small  pulque  pots  and 
pitchers  look  like  polished  mahogany  or  highly 
colored  meerschaum  pipe  bowls.  In  Puebla  a 
finer  ware  is  made,  something  between  good 
earthenware  and  coarse,  soft  porcelain.  It  has 
a  thick  tin  glaze,  and  the  decoration  in  strong 
color  is  an  under-glaze.  Here  in  Aguas  Cali- 
entes  they  make  not  only  most  of  these  coarser 
varieties,  but  a  better  grade  of  gray  stoneware, 
covered  with  a  yellow  glaze,  semi-transparent, 
with  splashings  of  red  flowers  and  leaves  scat- 
tered over  it. 

The  potters  are  these  much  despised,  de- 
graded peons,  who  not  only  work  in  clay,  em- 
broider in  feathers  with  exquisite  results  (an 
industry  of  their  ancestors),  but  make  the  finer 
saddles  of  stamped  and  incised  leather,  besides 
producing  an  infinite  variety  of  horse  equip- 
60 


SOME  PEONS  AT  AGUAS  CALIENTES 

ment  unknown  outside  of  Mexico.  Moreover, 
in  Uruapam  they  make  Japanese  lacquers,  in 
Santa  Fe  on  Lake  Patzcuaro,  Moorish  iridescent 
ware,  and  near  Puebla,  Venetian  glass.  In  a 
small  town  in  western  Mexico  I  found  a  glass 
pitcher,  made  by  a  Tarascan  Indian,  of  such 
exquisite  mould  and  finish  that  one  unfamiliar 
with  the  handiwork  of  this  down-trodden  race, 
seeing  it  in  its  place  of  honor  in  my  stu- 
dio, would  say,  "  Ah,  Venetian  !  Salviati,  of 
course." 

From  the  market  I  sought  the  church  of  San 
Diego,  with  its  inlaid  wooden  floor  and  quaint 
doorway  richly  carved,  and  as  the  twilight  set- 
tled, entered  the  narrow  street  that  led  to  my 
lodgings.  At  the  farther  end,  beneath  an  over- 
hanging balcony,  a  group  of  children  and  na- 
tives were  gathered  about  a  band  of  wandering 
minstrels.  As  I  drew  near,  the  tinkle  of  a  tri- 
angle and  the  thrum  of  a  harp  accompanying  a 
weird  chant  rose  on  the  air.  The  quartette  in 
appearance,  costume,  and  bearing  were  quite 
different  from  any  of  the  Indians  I  had  seen 
about  Aguas  Calientes.  They  were  much  lighter 
in  color,  and  were  distinguished  by  a  certain  air 
of  independence  and  dignity. 

The  tallest  and  oldest  of  the  band  held  in 
his  left  hand  a  short  harp,  quite  Greek  in  its 
61 


A  WHITE  UMBRELLA  IN  MEXICO 

design.  The  youngest  shook  a  tambourine,  with 
rim  and  rattles  complete,  but  without  the  drum- 
head. The  third  tinkled  a  triangle,  while  the 
fourth,  a  delicate-looking,  large-eyed,  straight 
young  fellow,  handsome  as  a  Greek  god,  with 
teeth  like  rows  of  corn,  joined  in  the  rhythmic 
chant.  As  they  stood  in  the  darkening  shadows, 
beating  time  with  their  sandalled  feet,  with 
harp  and  triangle  silhouetted  against  the  even- 
ing sky,  and  zarapes  hanging  in  long  straight 
lines  from  their  shoulders,  the  effect  was  so 
thoroughly  classic  that  I  could  not  but  recall 
one  of  the  great  friezes  of  the  Parthenon.  I 
lighted  a  cigarette,  opened  the  window  of  my 
balcony,  and  placing  the  bits  of  pottery  1  had 
bought  in  the  market  in  a  row  on  my  window- 
sill,  with  the  old  gardener's  azaleas  in  the  largest 
jar,  listened  to  the  music,  my  thoughts  full  of 
the  day's  work  and  experience.  My  memory 
went  back  to  my  three  friends  of  the  morning, 
standing  in  the  sunlight,  their  sombreros  in  the 
dust  ;  to  the  garrulous  old  gardener  bending 
over  his  flowers  ;  to  the  girl  selling  pottery  ;  to 
the  almost  tender  courtesy  and  gentleness  of 
these  people,  their  unchanging  serenity  of  tem- 
per, their  marvellous  patience,  their  innate  taste 
and  skill,  their  hopeless  poverty  and  daily  pri- 


62 


SOME  PEONS  AT  AGUAS  CALIENTES 

vations  and  sufferings ;  and  finally  to  the  in- 
justice of  it  all. 

Peons  and  serfs  in  their  own  land  !  Despoiled 
by  Cortez,  tricked  by  his  successors,  enslaved 
by  the  viceroys,  taxed,  beaten,  defrauded,  and 
despised  by  almost  every  ruler  and  usurper 
since  the  days  of  Spanish  rule,  the  whole  his- 
tory of  the  life  of  the  Aztec  and  his  descendants, 
from  the  initial  massacre  at  Cholula  down  to  the 
present  day,  has  been  one  long  list  of  cruelty 
and  deceit. 

The  music  ceased.  The  old  minstrel  ap- 
proached the  balcony  and  held  up  his  wide  som- 
brero. I  poured  into  it  all  my  stock  of  copper 
coin.  "  Muchas  gracias,  senor,"  came  back  the 
humble  acknowledgment.  Then  they  disap- 
peared up -the  narrow  street  and  the  crowd  dis- 
persed. I  looked  after  them  long  and  musingly, 
and  surprised  myself  repeating  the  benediction 
of  the  morning  :  — 

"  Con  Dios  vqyan  mtedes,  mis  amigos." 


THE    OLD    CHAIR    IN    THE    SACRISTY 
AT  ZACATECAS. 

IT  stood  just  inside  the  door  as  I  entered  from 
the  main  body  of  the  church.  Richly  carved, 
with  great  arms  broadened  out  where  the  el- 
bows touched,  it  had  the  air  of  being  especially 
designed  for  some  overfed,  lazy  prelate.  The 
hand-rests  were  rounded  in  wide  flutes,  conve- 
nient spaces  for  his  fat  fingers.  The  legs  bowed 
out  slightly  from  the  seat,  then  curved  sharply, 
and  finally  terminated  in  four  grotesque  claws, 
each  clutching  a  great  round  ball,  —  here  his 
toes  rested.  The  back  and  seat  were  covered 
with  the  rags  and  remnants  of  a  once  rich  vel- 
vet, fastened  by  an  intermittent  row  of  brass 
nails,  some  headless,  and  others  showing  only 
the  indent  of  their  former  usefulness.  On  each 
corner  of  the  back  flared  two  gilt  flambeaux, 
standing  bolt  upright  like  a  pair  of  outspread 
hands.  Over  the  whole  was  sifted,  and  into 
each  crack,  split,  and  carving  was  grimed  and 
64 


THE  OLD  CHAIR  AT  ZACATECAS 

channelled,  the  white  dust  that  envelops  Zaca- 
tecas  like  an  atmosphere. 

The  old  chair  had  evidently  had  its  day,  and 
it  had  been  a  glorious  one.  What  ceremonies, 
what  processions,  masses,  feasts,  had  it  pre- 
sided over !  What  grave  counsels  had  it  lis- 
tened to  !  What  dangers  escaped,  the  last  but 
a  score  of  years  ago,  when  this  same  old  cathe- 
dral of  Nuestra  Senora  de  la  Asuncion  was  bom- 
barded by  Juarez  ! 

Its  curved  and  stately  lines  were  too  graceful 
for  Mexican  handiwork.  Perhaps  some  old  Span- 
ish grandee,  with  penitence  in  his  soul,  had  sent 
this  noble  seat  across  the  sea  to  the  new  Spain, 
in  grateful  remembrance  of  the  most  holy  and 
blessed  Lady  of  Guadaloupe,  the  patron  saint 
of  this  once  powerful  church. 

If,  in  the  old  days,  it  had  belonged  to  a  set 
of  twelve,  or,  by  reason  of  its  arms,  had  pre- 
sided over  a  family  less  blessed,  no  fragment  of 
back,  leg,  or  round  was  left  to  tell  the  tale.  A 
plain  square  table,  covered  with  a  cotton  cloth 
edged  with  cheap  lace,  upon  which  stood  a 
crucifix,  a  few  worn-out,  high-backed,  hide- 
bottomed  chairs,  and  a  chest  of  green  painted 
bureau  drawers  built  into  the  wall  and  holding 
the  church  vestments,  were  its  only  companions. 
But  all  these  were  of  a  recent  date  and  pattern. 

65 


A  WHITE  UMBRELLA  IN  MEXICO 

I  had  been  in  Zacatecas  but  a  few  hours 
when  I  discovered  this  precious  relic  of  the  last 
century.  I  coveted  it  at  sight,  —  more,  I  admit, 
than  I  dared  tell  the  good-natured,  patient  sac- 
ristan who  stood  by  wondering  and  delighted, 
watching  me  make  a  rapid  sketch  of  its  twisted 
legs  and  capacious  seat.  To  all  my  propositions 
for  its  immediate  possession,  however,  he  only 
shrugged  his  shoulders.  I  confess  that  many 
of  them  savored  of  conspiracy,  and  all  of  them 
of  grand  larceny,  and  that  I  was  entitled  to  a 
speedy  trial  and  a  place  in  the  chain-gang  for 
suggesting  any  one  of  them. 

"  A  ragged  old  chair  that  will  hardly  stand 
upright ;  the  only  one  left.  Who  will  miss  it  ?" 
I  argued. 

"The  padre,  senor  painter,  who  is  very  old. 
He  loves  everything  here.  This  wretched  chair 
has  been  his  friend  for  many  years." 

"Tell  him,  mi  amigo,  that  I,  too,  love  chairs, 
and  old  ones  especially,  and  will  give  him  the 
price  of  two,  four,  six  new  ones  for  this  old  rat- 
tletrap." 

"  Very  well,  senor ;  at  five  o'clock  to-day 
vespers  will  be  over.  Then  the  padre  will  re- 
turn here.  Wait  for  me  in  the  garden  over  the 
way  near  the  fountain." 

The  decision  was  a  relief.  In  Mexico,  as  in 
66 


THE  OLD  CHAIR  AT  ZACATECAS 

Spain,  it  is  generally  to-morrow  or  the  day 
after.  Manana  por  la  manana  is  the  motto  of 
the  Spanish-speaking  race. 

It  was  now  twelve  o'clock.  Only  five  hours 
to  wait.  My  hopes  rose.  I  reentered  the  cathe- 
dral. 

It  had  been  a  sumptuous  church  in  its  day. 
Begun  in  1612,  completed  one  hundred  and 
twenty-five  years  later,  and  dedicated  with  im- 
posing ceremonies  the  year  following,  it  had 
contained  within  its  walls  all  that  florid  magnifi- 
cence which  distinguishes  the  Mexican  churches. 
All  the  interior  adornments  had  been  of  plated 
gilt,  the  altars  of  fine  marble  and  onyx,  the 
font  of  solid  silver,  —  alone  valued  at  twenty 
thousand  pounds  sterling.  Four  noble  steps  of 
colored  marble,  still  intact,  led  the  way  to  the  al- 
tar. On  each  side  ran  a  railing  of  wrought  silver 
of  fabulous  worth.  Over  this  had  hung  a  lamp 
of  splendid  proportions,  burning  a  single  taper, 
and  shedding  a  ruby  light.  The  main  floor  was 
of  marquetry  of  varied  colored  woods,  and  of 
a  simple  Moorish  pattern,  marking  the  promi- 
nence of  that  Spanish  taste  which  at  the  period 
characterized  so  many  of  the  great  colonial 
structures. 

But  sad  changes  had  taken  place  since  that 
date,  most  of  them  within  the  last  quarter  of 
67 


A  WHITE  UMBRELLA  IN  MEXICO 

this  century.  Not  only  had  the  superb  silver 
altar-rail,  hanging  lamp,  and  costly  font  been 
coined  down  into  Mexican  dollars,  but  tapestries 
and  velvets,  chasubles  and  copes,  heavy  with 
embroidery  in  gold  and  silver,  had  also  found 
their  way  to  the  crucible.  Even  the  intricate 
marquetry  floor  had  been  broken  up,  presum- 
ably in  the  search  for  hidden  vessels,  and  in  its 
place  here  and  there  were  great  squares  of 
heavy  planking  held  down  by  rude  iron  spikes, 
the  heads  thrust  up  and  kept  bright  by  the  rest- 
less feet  of  countless  worshippers. 

The  leaders  of  an  impecunious  government 
executing  a  forced  loan  do  not  stop  at  trifles  like 
these ! 

As  I  wandered  about,  comparing  its  present 
shabby  surroundings  with  the  record  of  its  past 
grandeur,  groups  of  penitents  would  glide  in, 
throw  their  rebozos  from  their  faces,  and  kneel 
praying.  Near  me  a  single  figure  closely  muf- 
fled would  press  her  face  against  the  sliding  panel 
of  the  queer  confessional  box  and  pour  into  the 
ear  of  the  listless  priest  the  story  of  her  sin. 
Over  by  the  altar  a  solitary  Indian,  wrapped  in 
hiszarape,  his  wide  straw  sombrero  by  his  side, 
would  bend  forward  until  his  forehead  touched 
the  cold  pavement  and  so  remain  motionless. 
About  in  the  aisles  or  prostrate  before  the  rude 
68 


THE  OLD  CHAIR  AT  ZACATECAS 

wooden  figures  of  the  saints  knelt  other  groups 
of  worshippers,  often  an  entire  family  together, 
telling  their  beads  with  their  lips  and  watching 
me  with  their  eyes  as  I  noted  in  my  sketch- 
book the  picturesque  bits  about  me.  Finally  I 
completed  the  circuit  of  the  interior,  and  a  flood 
of  sunlight  poured  in  through  an  open  door. 
This  led  me  to  the  street  and  so  on  into  the 
market-place. 

No  such  scene  exists  in  any  quarter  of  the 
globe  where  I  have  wandered  :  a  brilliant  sky 
blue  as  a  china  plate  ;  blinding  sunlight ;  throngs 
of  people  in  red,  orange,  or  blue ;  women  in  re- 
bozos  and  scarlet  sashes  ;  men  wearing  vermil- 
ion zarapes  about  their  shoulders,  with  wide 
hats  of  felt  trimmed  with  silver,  and  breeches 
of  pink  buckskin  held  together  down  the  sides 
by  silver  buttons ;  donkeys  piled  high  with 
great  sacks  of  silver  ore ;  cavaliers  on  horse- 
back with  murderous  rowels  in  the  heels  of 
their  riding-boots,  their  Mexican  saddles  fes- 
tooned with  lassos  and  lariats ;  soldiers  carry- 
ing carbines  and  mounted  on  spirited  horses 
guarding  gangs  of  convicts,  each  one  of  whom 
staggers  under  a  basket  of  sand  held  to  his  back 
by  a  strap  across  his  forehead  ;  great  flocks  of 
sheep  blocking  up  the  narrow  streets,  driven  by 
shepherds  on  horseback,  changing  their  pasture 

69 


A  WHITE  UMBRELLA  IN  MEXICO 

from  one  hillside  to  another,  —  the  whole  com- 
pletes a  picture  as  strange  as  it  is  unique. 

In  the  centre  of  the  plaza  stands  a  curious 
fountain,  surrounded  by  a  low  wall  breast-high. 
Around  this  swarm  hundreds  of  women.  Hang- 
ing over  it  are  half  a  hundred  more,  reaching 
as  far  across  the  circular  wall  as  their  arms  will 
permit,  scooping  up  the  thin  sheet  of  water  into 
saucers  with  which  they  filled  their  jars.  On 
the  pavement,  protected  by  huge  square  um- 
brellas of  straw  mats,  with  ribs  like  a  boy's 
kite,  squatting  Indian  women  sell  oranges, 
prickly  pears,  figs,  lemons,  cberimoyis,  great 
melons,  and  other  tropical  fruits.  On  the  cor- 
ners of  the  streets,  under  rags  of  awning,  sit 
cobblers  ready  to  cut  and  fit  a  sandal  while 
you  wait,  their  whole  stock  in  trade  but  a  pile 
of  scraps  of  sole  leather,  a  trifle  larger  than  the 
human  foot,  some  leather  thongs,  and  a  sharp 
curved  knife.  Adjoining  the  market,  facing  an 
open  square,  rises  a  great  building  supported  by 
immense  square  pillars  forming  an  arcade.  At 
the  foot  of  each  pillar  a  garrulous  Mexican  shouts 
out  the  wares  of  his  impromptu  shop  at  half- 
minute  intervals.  Then  comes  the  alameda,  or 
public  garden,  bright  with  flowers  and  semi- 
tropical  plants,  with  a  summer-house  of  the  time- 
honored  pattern,  octagon,  lined  with  benches. 
70 


THE  OLD  CHAIR  AT  ZACATECAS 

and  in  the  centre  a  table  containing,  as  usual, 
the  fragments  of  the  last  lounger's  lunch. 

Here  I  rested  out  of  the  glare  and  din. 

Suddenly,  while  looking  down  upon  the  street 
across  the  green,  listening  to  the  plash  of  the 
fountain  and  watching  the  senoritas  on  their 
way  to  mass,  I  saw  a  rush  of  people  crowding 
the  streets  below,  and  heard  the  clear  musical 
notes  of  a  woman's  voice  rising  above  the  street 
cries.  As  the  mob  forced  its  way  past  the  cor- 
ner leading  from  the  cathedral  and  up  the  main 
street  fronting  me,  I  caught  sight  of  a  ceremony 
not  often  seen  in  Zacatecas,  and  but  rarely  met 
with  elsewhere. 

In  the  middle  of  the  street,  upon  their  knees  on 
the  rough  stones,  walked  or  rather  crawled  two 
native  Indian  girls  dressed  in  white,  their  heads 
bare,  their  black  hair  streaming  down  their 
backs,  their  eyes  aflame  with  excitement.  Both 
clasped  to  their  breasts  a  small  crucifix.  Sur- 
rounding them  were  a  dozen  half-crazed  devo- 
tees, whose  frenzied  cries  swelled  the  chant  of 
the  youngest  penitent.  Suddenly,  from  out  a 
pulque  shop  on  the  opposite  corner,  darted  three 
men,  evidently  peons.  With  a  quick  movement 
they  divided  the  pressing  crowd,  sprang  ahead 
of  the  girls,  and  tearing  their  own  zarapes  from 
their  shoulders,  threw  them  in  turn  in  front  of 


A  WHITE  UMBRELLA  IN  MEXICO 

the  penitents.  As  the  girls  crawled  across  them, 
the  first  peon  would  again  seize  his  zarape,  run 
ahead,  and  respread  it. 

"It  is  a  penance,  sefior,"  said  a  bystander, 
evidently  a  Spaniard,  "  not  often  seen  here. 
The  girls  believe  they  have  committed  some 
great  sin.  They  are  on  their  way  to  Los  Reme- 
dios,  the  chapel  that  you  see  on  the  hill  yonder. 
But  for  these  drunken  peons  they  would  leave 
a  bloody  track." 

Whether  drunk  or  sober,  by  bigot  or  scoffer, 
it  was  a  graceful  act.  Surely  the  gallant  Sir 
Walter  paid  no  more  courtly  tribute  to  the 
good  Queen  Bess  when  he  threw  his  cloak  be- 
neath her  dainty  feet  than  did  these  poor  peons 
to  their  dusky  sisters. 

But  it  was  still  some  hours  before  the  padre 
would  be  at  leisure  and  I  get  definite  news  of 
my  coveted  chair. 

I  would  lunch  at  the  Zacatecano,  formerly  the 
old  Augustinian  convent,  now  the  only  inn  this 
quaint  old  town  can  boast  of,  take  a  run  by  the 
tram  to  Guadaloupe,  past  the  silver  mines,  and 
be  back  in  time  for  the  sacristan. 

As  I  entered,  the  landlord  extended  both 
hands  as  if  he  had  been  my  dearest  friend.  He 
proved  to  be,  later. 

"  Certainly,  sefior.  What  shall  it  be  ?  We 
72 


THE  OLD  CHAIR  AT  ZACATECAS 

have  a  cutlet ;  we  also  have  a  salad.  Beer  ? 
Plenty.  San  Louis,  Bass,  Mexican.  Which 
shall  I  open  for  the  illustrious  painter  ?" 

The  painter  ordered  a  bottle  of  Bass,  and  be- 
ing thirsty  and  a  long  way  from  home,  and  with 
the  remembrance  of  many  a  foaming  tankard  in 
other  benighted  quarters  of  the  earth,  ordered 
another.  If  the  landlord  was  polite  at  the  first 
bottle,  he  became  positively  servile  at  the  sec- 
ond. A  third  would  have  finished  him,  and  my 
bank  account.  From  the  bill  1  learned  that  one 
bottle  of  Bass  is  equal  to  the  wages  of  one  able- 
bodied  man  working  five  days  ;  two  bottles, 
the  price  of  a  donkey ;  three  bottles,  no  man 
can  calculate. 

Thus  it  is  that  a  cruel  government  grinds  the 
masses ! 

But  the  cutlet  was  tender  and  juicy,  with 
just  a  dash  of  garlic  ;  the  salad  of  lettuce  of  a 
wrinkled  and  many-seamed  variety,  with  sprays 
of  red  pepper  cut  exceedingly  fine  and  scattered 
through  it,  and,  blessed  be  Bass  !  the  priceless 
bottles  were  full  of  the  same  old  amber-colored 
nectar  one  always  draws  from  under  the  same 
old  compact,  tinfoil-covered  corks. 

But  to  Guadaloupe  and  back  before  mass 
ended. 

You  reach  this  suburb  of  Zacatecas  by  a  mod- 

73 


A  WHITE  UMBRELLA  IN  MEXICO 

ern  tramway  which  starts  a  car  every  hour ;  a 
sort  of  Mexican  toboggan-slide,  for  the  whole 
six  miles  is  down  hill  by  gravity.  At  the  other 
end  is  the  Iglesia  y  Capilla  de  Guadaloupe,  — 
an  exquisite  modern  chapel, —  besides  an  old 
garden,  a  new  market,  a  straggling  suburb,  and 
various  teams  of  mules  to  toboggan  you  back 
again. 

I  stepped  from  the  car  and  began  sight-seeing. 
The  chapel,  the  gift  of  a  pious  lady,  is  semi- 
oriental,  with  its  creamy-white  minarets  shoot- 
ing up  from  behind  a  mass  of  dark  cedars  re- 
lieved against  the  intense  blue  sky  ;  the  garden 
is  overrun  with  sweet  peas,  poppies,  calla  lilies, 
and  geraniums  blooming  amidst  fleecy  acacia- 
trees  waving  in  the  dazzling  sunlight ;  the  mar- 
ket has  the  usual  collection  of  coarse  pottery 
and  green  vegetables,  with  gay  booths  hung 
with  bright  zarapes  and  rebozos,  and  the  strag- 
gling suburb  is  as  picturesque  and  full  of  color  as 
any  other  Mexican  suburban  village.  1  noted 
them  all  and  each  one,  and  they  interested  me 
intensely. 

One  other  thing  interested  me  infinitely  more. 
It  was  an  individual  who  came  to  my  rescue  in 
the  midst  of  a  dislocated  Spanish  sentence.  I 
was  at  the  moment  in  a  curious  old  cloister  ad- 
joining the  new  chapel  of  Guadaloupe,  examin- 

74 


THE  OLD  CHAIR  AT  ZACATECAS 

ing  with  the  aid  of  a  rotund  attendant  the  dia- 
bolical pictures  that  lined  its  walls,  when  a  tall, 
well-built  young  fellow  wearing  a  slouch  hat 
stopped  immediately  in  front  of  the  most  repul- 
sive canvas  of  the  collection,  and,  after  listen- 
ing to  my  halting  inquiry,  supplied  the  missing 
word  in  excellent  Spanish.  Then,  shifting  his 
hat  to  the  opposite  ear,  he  pointed  to  the  sup- 
posed portrait  of  an  ancient  martyr  surrounded 
by  lurid  flames  behind  iron  bars,  and  remarked 
quietly,  — 

"Beastly  ugly  old  saint,  isn't  he?  Looks 
like  an  underdone  steak  on  a  grill." 

"  You  speak  English,  then  ?  " 

"  Why  not  ?  You  would  n't  want  me  to 
cling  to  this  jargon  forever,  would  you  ?  " 

From  that  instant  the  collection  was  forgot- 
ten. 

He  was  about  thirty  years  of  age,  with  a 
bronzed  face,  curling  mustachios,  and  arching 
eyebrows  that  shaded  a  pair  of  twinkling  brown 
eyes.  A  sort  of  devil-may-care  air  seemed  to 
pervade  him,  coupled  with  a  certain  reckless- 
ness discernible  even  in  the  way  he  neglected 
his  upper  vest  buttons,  and  tossed  one  end  of 
his  cravat  over  his  shoulder.  He  wore  a  large, 
comfortable,  easily  adjusted  slouch  hat  which 
he  kept  constantly  in  motion,  using  it  as  some 

75 


A  WHITE  UMBRELLA  IN  MEXICO 

men  do  their  hands  to  emphasize  their  sen- 
tences. If  the  announcement  was  somewhat 
startling,  the  hat  would  be  flattened  out  against 
the  back  of  his  head,  the  broad  brim  standing 
out  in  a  circle,  and  framing  the  face,  which 
changed  with  every  thought  behind  it.  If  of  a 
confidential  nature,  it  was  pulled  down  on  the 
side  next  to  you  like  the  pirate's  in  the  play. 
If  his  communication  might  offend  ears  polite, 
he  used  one  edge  of  it  as  a  lady  would  a  fan, 
and,  from  behind  it,  gave  you  a  morsel  of  scan- 
dal with  such  point  and  pith  that  you  forgave 
its  raciness  because  of  the  crisp  and  breezy  way 
with  which  it  was  imparted. 

He  hailed  from  New  Orleans  ;  had  lived  in  Za- 
catecas two  years  ;  in  western  Mexico  ten  more  ; 
was  an  engineer  by  profession  ;  had  constructed 
part  of  the  International  Road,  and  was  now 
looking  after  some  of  its  interests  in  Zacatecas. 

"My  name?  Moon.  Fits  exactly,  my  dear 
fellow,  for  I  'm  generally  up  all  night.  Been 
here  long?"  He  rattled  on.  "You  ought  to 
stay  a  month.  Richest  town  in  all  Mexico. 
Just  a  solid  silver  mine  under  your  feet  all  the 
way  from  here  to  Zacatecas.  Best  people  I 
know  anywhere,  and  more  pretty  girls  to  the 
square  mile  than  any  spot  on  this  terrestrial." 

And  then  followed  a  running  description  of 
76 


THE  OLD  CHAIR  AT  ZACATECAS 

his  life  here  and  at  home,  interspersed  with  va- 
rious accounts  of  his  scrapes  and  escapades, 
from  which  I  gathered  that  he  knew  everybody 
in  Zacatecas,  including  the  priest,  the  com- 
mandant, and  the  pretty  girl  in  the  balcony. 
This  biographical  sketch  was  further  enriched 
by  such  additional  details  as  his  once  filling  a 
holy  father  full  of  cognac  to  induce  him  to  grant 
a  right  of  way  for  a  railroad  through  the  convent 
garden  ;  of  his  being  helped  out  of  prison  by 
the  governor,  who  was  his  friend  and  who 
locked  up  his  accuser  ;  and  of  his  making  love 
to  a  certain  charming  senorita  whenever  he  got 
a  chance,  which,  he  declared,  was  now  precious 
seldom,  owing  to  a  cross-eyed  mother  who  saw 
both  ways  at  once,  and  a  duenna  who  hated  him. 

Would  I  take  the  tram  and  go  back  to  Zaca- 
tecas with  him  ? 

Yes,  if  he  would  stop  at  the  cathedral  at  five 
and  wait  until  vespers  were  over. 

"  So  you  have  caught  on,  have  you  ?  "  Then 
in  a  confidential  manner,  "  Come,  now,  give 
me  her  name.  Reckon  I  know  her.  Bet  it 's 
the  black-eyed  girl  with  the  high  comb.  She  's 
always  cutting  her  eye  at  the  last  stranger." 

It  was  difficult  to  make  this  dare-devil  of  a 
Southerner  understand  that  my  engagement 
was  entirely  with  a  simple-minded,  mild-eyed 

77 


A  WHITE  UMBRELLA  IN  MEXICO 

old  sacristan,  and  not  with  one  of  Zacatecas's 
bewitching  sefioritas. 

"What  sacristan  ?  Old  Miguel  ?  A  greasy- 
looking,  bandy-legged  old  bald-head  ?  Wears 
a  green  jacket  ?  " 

I  admitted  that  the  description  classified  him 
to  some  extent. 

Moon  broke  out  into  a  laugh  that  started  the 
six  mules  in  a  gallop  up  the  tramway. 

Did  he  know  him  ?  Well,  he  should  think 
so.  Best  post-office  in  Zacatecas,  especially  at 
very  early  mass.  What  was  he  doing  for  me  ? 
Smuggling  letters  ? 

No,  buying  a  chair. 

Moon  laid  one  hand  tenderly  on  my  shoulder, 
shifted  his  slouch  hat  over  his  right  ear,  and  in 
his  peculiar  vernacular  characterized  my  state- 
ment as  "  diaphanous,"  and  then  in  a  coaxing 
tone  demanded  the  name  of  the  girl. 

"  My  friend,  there  is  no  girl.  Wait  until  we 
pass  the  cathedral.  It  is  now  five  o'clock.  The 
sacristan  is  expecting  me  in  the  garden,  and  he 
shall  tell  you  the  rest.  There  he  is  now,  wait- 
ing under  the  palms." 

"  See  here,  Miguel,"  broke  in  Moon  as  we 
alighted,  ignoring  the  sacristan's  obsequious 
salutations.  "What  about  this  girl's  chair? 
Come,  out  with  it." 

78 


THE  OLD  CHAIR  AT  ZACATECAS 

Miguel  looked  at  Moon  and  then  turned  to 
me  and  smiled  grimly. 

"  It  is  always  the  senoritas  with  Senor  Moon, " 
he  said,  and  then  he  repeated  our  interview  of 
the  morning,  winding  up  with  my  incompre- 
hensible infatuation  for  the  four-legged  relic, 
and  his  unsuccessful  efforts  with  the  padre  to 
sell  or  exchange  it  for  any  number  of  new 
chairs,  great  or  small. 

"  It  is  really  impossible,  sefior  painter.  The 
padre  says  it  is  an  old  one  of  many  years," 
continued  the  sacristan. 

"  If  the  painter  wants  the  old  ruin,  he  shall 
have  it,  you  bow-legged  old  mailbag." 

"  The  padre  will  not,  Senior  Moon  ;  not  for 
ten  new  ones.  I  have  exhausted  everything." 

"  What  padre  ?  "  replied  Moon. 

"  Padre  Ignatius." 

"Old  Ig,  is  it  ?  No,  he  would  n't  part  with 
an  adobe  brick."  Then  turning  to  me,  "What 
did  you  tell  him  you  wanted  it  for  ?  " 

"  For  my  studio." 

"Studio  be .  Go,  Miguel,  and  tell  Pa- 
dre Ignatius  that  my  very  old  and  very  dear 
friend,  the  painter,  is  a  devout  Catholic  from  the 
holy  city  of  New  York  ;  that  he  has  an  uncle,  a 
holy  father,  in  fact,  a  bishop,  who  is  very  poor, 
and  who  charged  him  to  bring  from  the  ancient 

79 


A  WHITE  UMBRELLA  IN  MEXICO 

city  of  Zacatecas  a  sacred  relic  from  this  very 
church,  and  that  this  aged,  low-backed  old  crip- 
ple of  a  chair  will  exactly  fill  the  bill.  Go  ! 
vete !  But  stop!"  (In  a  lower  tone.)  "Did 
you  give  it  to  her  —  the  little  one  ?  When  — 
after  early  mass  ?  Bueno  !  " 

A  long  wait  at  the  door  of  the  sacristy  ;  then 
a  footfall  in  the  darkening  twilight. 

"  Senor,  the  padre  says  he  will  consider.  The 
price  is  of  course  very  small,  and  but  that  your 
uncle  the  holy  bishop  is  very  poor  it  could  not 
be,  but  as  a  "  — 

"  Hold  up,  Miguel.  All  right.  Send  the  chair 
to  the  painter's  lodgings." 

When  I  reached  the  church  door  and  the 
street  and  looked  back,  I  could  see  the  red  tow- 
ers of  the  cathedral  gleaming  pink  and  yellow 
in  the  fading  light  of  the  afterglow,  and  far  up 
the  crooked  street  I  could  hear  my  voluble  friend 
of  an  afternoon  whistling  an  air  from  "  Norma." 

At  the  door  of  my  lodgings  I  found  the  chair. 


80 


VI 
IN   THE  CITY'S  STREETS 

NO  one  at  all  familiar  with  the  history  of 
Mexico  can  wander  about  the  streets  and 
suburbs  of  this  its  principal  city  without  seeing 
at  every  turn  some  evidence  of  the  vast  changes 
which  have  marked  its  past,  and  which  have 
made  its  story  so  thrilling. 

If  Prescott's  pleasing  fiction  of  Teocallis  tow- 
ering to  the  stars,  the  smoke  of  whose  sacrifices 
curled  upwards  day  and  night ;  of  gorgeous 
temples,  of  hanging  and  floating  gardens,  myri- 
ads of  feather-clad  warriors  armed  with  spear 
and  shield,  swarms  of  canoes  brilliant  as  tropi- 
cal birds,  and  of  a  court  surrounding  Monte- 
zuma  and  Guatemotzin,  more  lavish  than  the 
wildest  dream  of  the  Orient,  —  if  all  this  is 
true,  —  and  I  prefer  to  believe  it  rather  than 
break  the  gods  of  my  childhood,  —  so  also  are 
the  great  plaza  of  the  cathedral,  and  the  noble 
edifice  itself  with  splendid  facade  and  majestic 
twin  towers,  the  hundreds  of  churches  about 
81 


A  WHITE  UMBRELLA  IN  MEXICO 

which  cluster  the  remains  of  convent,  monas- 
tery, and  hospital ;  the  wide  paseos,  the  tropi- 
cal gardens,  the  moss-bearded  cypresses  four 
centuries  old,  under  which  the  disheartened  Az- 
tec monarch  mourned  the  loss  of  his  kingdom, 
the  palaces  of  the  viceroys,  the  alamedas  and 
their  fountains. 

If  you  push  aside  the  broad-leaved  plants  in 
the  grand  plaza,  you  will  find  heaped  up  and 
half  covered  with  tangled  vines  the  broken 
fragments  of  rudely  carved  stones,  once  the 
glory  of  an  Aztec  temple.  If  you  climb  down 
the  steep  hill  under  Chapultepec  and  break 
away  the  matted  underbrush,  you  will  discover 
the  mutilated  effigy  of  Ahuitzotl,  the  last  of 
Montezuma's  predecessors,  stretched  out  on  the 
natural  rock,  the  same  the  ancient  sculptor  se- 
lected for  his  chisel  in  the  days  when  the  groves 
about  him  echoed  with  song,  and  when  these 
same  gnarled  cypresses  gave  grateful  shadow  to 
priest,  emperor,  and  slave. 

Stroll  out  to  Santa  Anita ;  examine  the  cbi- 
nampas,  the  floating  gardens  of  the  old  Mex- 
ican race.  They  are  still  there,  overgrown 
with  weeds  and  anchored  by  neglect.  As  in 
the  old  times,  so  now  on  every  feast  day  the 
narrow  canal  of  las  l/igas,  leading  to  the  cbi- 
nampas,  is  crowded  with  boats ;  the  maidens 
82 


IN  THE  CITY'S  STREETS 

bind  wreaths  of  poppies  about  their  heads,  and 
the  song  and  laughter  of  the  light-hearted  race 
—  light-hearted  when  even  for  a  day  they  lay 
their  burdens  down  — still  ring  out  in  the  twi- 
light air. 

The  two  civilizations,  the  pagan  and  the 
Christian,  are  still  distinct  to  those  who  look 
below  the  surface.  Time  has  not  altered  them 
materially.  Even  to-day  in  the  hollows  of  the 
mountains  and  amid  the  dense  groves  on  the 
tropical  slopes  the  natives  steal  away  and  pro- 
strate themselves  before  the  stone  images  of  their 
gods,  and  in  the  churches  of  the  more  remote 
provinces  the  parish  priest  has  found  more  than 
once  the  rude  sculptured  idol  concealed  behind 
the  Christian  altar.  To  the  kneeling  peon  the 
ugly  stone  is  his  sole  hope  of  safety  and  for- 
giveness. 

Important  changes  are  taking  place,  however, 
which  predict  a  happier  future  for  Mexico.  The 
monastery  of  San  Hip61ito,  once  the  palace  of 
Bucareli,  now  contains  a  printing  press.  The 
convent  of  Nuestra  Sefiora  de  la  Concepcion  is 
a  public  school ;  the  church  of  San  Agustin,  a 
public  library  ;  and  through  the  silent  arches  of 
many  cloisters,  and  through  many  a  secluded 
convent  garden,  run  broad  avenues  filled  with 
the  gay  life  of  the  metropolis.  Moreover  to-day, 

83 


A  WHITE  UMBRELLA  IN  MEXICO 

every  man,  be  he  pagan,  Christian,  or  Jew, 
may  worship  his  particular  god  according  to  the 
dictates  of  his  own  conscience,  in  any  form  that 
pleases  him. 

Nothing  so  pointedly  marks  for  me  the 
strange  contrasts  which  these  changes  have 
brought  about,  as  my  own  quarters  at  the  Ho- 
tel Jardin. 

I  am  living  in  two  rooms  at  the  end  of  a  long 
balcony  overlooking  a  delicious  garden,  redo- 
lent with  azaleas,  pomegranates,  and  jasmine, 
in  full  bloom.  I  am  at  the  extreme  end  of  the 
balcony,  which  is  several  hundred  feet  long, 
and  next  to  me  is  a  stained  and  battered  wall, 
encrusted  with  moss  and  lichen,  supported  by 
buttresses  running  sheer  into  the  poppy  beds. 
This  wall  sustains  one  side  of  a  building  which 
is  surmounted  by  a  quaint  tile  roof. 

My  rooms  are  high-ceiled  and  spacious,  and 
floored  with  red  brick.  The  walls,  judged  from 
the  width  of  the  door  jambs,  are  of  unusual 
strength. 

At  the  other  end  of  the  balcony,  from  out 
the  roof,  rises  a  dome  which  glistens  in  the  set- 
ting sun.  It  is  covered  with  exquisite  Spanish 
tiles  of  blue  and  yellow,  each  one  of  which 
forms  part  of  a  picture  telling  the  story  of  the 
Cross.  Beyond  the  garden,  several  squares 
84 


IN  THE  CITY'S  STREETS 

away,  cut  sharp  against  the  afternoon  sky, 
curves  the  beautiful  dome  of  the  cathedral  of 
San  Francisco,  beneath  whose  frescoed  roof  once 
rested  the  bones  of  Cortez. 

Scarce  twenty -five  years  ago  the  square 
bounded  by  this  little  dome  with  the  Spanish 
tiles,  this  great  dome  of  the  cathedral,  and  the 
outside  of  the  mould  -  stained  convent  wall, 
formed  the  great  religious  foundation  of  San 
Francisco,  the  richest  and  most  powerful  of  the 
ecclesiastical  holdings  in  Mexico.  From  this 
spot  radiated  the  commanding  influence  of  the 
order.  Here  masses  were  heard  by  Cortez. 
Here  through  three  centuries  the  great  festivals 
of  the  church  were  taken  part  in  by  the  vice- 
roys. Here  was  sung  the  first  Te  Deum  of  Mex- 
ican independence,  and  here  seventeen  years 
later  were  held  the  magnificent  funeral  services 
of  the  liberator  Yturbide. 

How  great  the  changes !  To-day  a  Protest- 
ant congregation  worships  in  the  grand  old 
cathedral,  its  interior  a  horror  of  whitewash 
and  emptiness  ;  a  modern  hotel  supplants  the 
old  infirmary  and  palace  of  the  commissioners- 
general  of  the  order ;  a  public  livery  stables  its 
horses  in  the  refectory,  and  four  broad  streets 
traverse  the  length  and  breadth  of  the  sacred 
ground,  irrespective  of  chancel,  cloister,  or  gar- 

85 


A  WHITE  UMBRELLA  IN  MEXICO 

den.  Through  the  top  of  the  exquisite  cupola 
surmounting  the  little  glazed  tile  dome  covering 
the  chapel  of  San  Antonio  is  thrust  a  sheet-iron 
stove-pipe.  Within  this  once  beautiful  house 
of  prayer,  the  space  covered  by  the  altar  is  now 
occupied  by  an  enormous  French  range,  upon 
which  is  ruined  all  the  food  of  the  Hotel  Jardin. 
In  the  delightful  arched  windows,  piles  of  dirty 
dishes  replace  the  swinging  lamps ;  near  an 
exit  where  once  stood  the  font,  a  plate-warmer 
of  an  Eastern  pattern  gives  out  an  oily  odor ;  and 
where  the  acolytes  swung  their  censers,  to-day 
swarms  a  perspiring  mob  of  waiters  urgent  to 
be  served  by  a  chef  who  officiates  in  the  exact 
spot  where  the  holy  archbishop  celebrated  high 
mass. 

High  on  the  cornice  of  the  dome  still  clings 
the  figure  of  San  Domingo.  His  wooden  bones 
and  carved  teeth  should  rattle  and  chatter  them- 
selves loose  as  he  gazes  down  upon  the  awful 
sacrilege,  for  above  him,  where  once  the  wings 
of  the  Dove  of  the  Holy  Spirit  overspread  the 
awe-hushed  penitents,  now  twists  with  a  con- 
venient iron  elbow  a  rusty  pipe,  that  carries 
the  foul  breath  of  this  impious  range  into  the 
pure  air  of  the  heaven  above. 

As  I  sit  on  my  section  of  the  balcony  and 
paint,  I  can  see  within  a  few  yards  of  my  easel 
86 


IN  THE  CITY'S  STREETS 

an  open  window,  framed  in  the  mouldy  convent 
wall.  The  golden  sunlight  streams  in,  and  falls 
upon  the  weather-stained  stones  and  massive 
iron-bound  shutter,  touches  a  strip  of  dainty 
white  curtain,  and  rests  lovingly  upon  the  head  of 
a  peon  girl  who  sits  all  day  sewing,  and  croon- 
ing to  herself  a  quaint  song.  She  watches  me 
now  and  then  with  great  wondering  eyes.  As 
I  work  I  hear  the  low  hum  of  a  sewing-machine 
keeping  time  to  her  melody.  Suddenly  there 
is  a  quick  movement  among  the  matted  leaves 
clinging  to  the  festering  wall,  and  from  out  a 
dark  crevice  creeps  a  slimy,  snake-like  lizard. 
He  listens  and  raises  his  green  head  and  glides 
noiselessly  into  the  warm  sunlight.  There  he 
stretches  his  lithe  body  and  basks  lazily. 

I  laid  down  my  brushes,  and  fell  into  a  rev- 
erie. The  sunlight,  the  dark-eyed  Indian  girl, 
the  cheery  hum  of  her  shuttle,  and  the  loath- 
some lizard  crawling  from  out  the  ruins  of  a  dead 
convent  wall  told  me  the  whole  story  of  Mexico. 

The  old  church  of  San  Hip61ito  stands  within 
a  stone's  throw  of  the  spot  where  Alvarado, 
Cortez's  greatest  captain,  is  said  to  have  made 
his  famous  leap  on  that  eventful  night  of  July  I, 
1520,  the  Noche  Triste.  Indeed,  it  was  built 
by  one  of  the  survivors  of  that  massacre,  Juan 
Garido,  in  commemoration  of  its  horrors.  Not 

87 


A  WHITE  UMBRELLA  IN  MEXICO 

the  present  structure,  but  a  little  chapel  of 
adobe,  which  eighty  years  later  was  pulled 
down  to  make  room  for  the  edifice  of  to-day. 
You  can  still  see  upon  the  outside  wall  sur- 
rounding the  atrium  of  the  present  building  a 
commemorative  stone  tablet,  bearing  the  alto- 
relievos  of  arms,  trophies,  and  devices  of  the 
ancient  Mexicans,  with  this  inscription  :  — 

"  So  great  was  the  slaughter  of  the  Spaniards 
by  the  Aztecs  in  this  place  on  the  night  of  July 
i,  1520,  named  for  this  reason  the  Dismal 
Night,  that  after  having  in  the  following  year 
reentered  the  city  triumphantly,  the  conquerors 
resolved  to  build  here  a  chapel,  to  be  called  the 
Chapel  of  the  Martyrs ;  and  which  should  be 
dedicated  to  San  Hipolito,  because  the  capture 
of  the  city  occurred  upon  that  saint's  day." 

Janvier  says:  "  Until  the  year  1812,  there 
was  celebrated  annually  on  the  I3th  of  August 
at  this  church  a  solemn  ceremony,  both  religious 
and  civil,  known  as  the  Procession  of  the  Ban- 
ner (Paseo  del  pendon),  in  which  the  viceroy 
and  the  great  officers  of  the  State  and  the  no- 
bility, together  with  the  archbishops  and  digni- 
taries of  the  Church,  took  part.  Its  principal 
feature  was  the  carrying  in  state  of  the  crimson 
banner  formerly  borne  by  the  conquerors,  and 
still  preserved  in  the  National  Museum." 


IN  THE  CITY'S  STREETS 

There  was  nothing  to  indicate  the  existence 
of  any  such  ceremony  the  day  I  strolled  into  its 
quiet  courtyard.  The  wooden  gates,  sagging 
and  rotting  on  their  hinges,  were  thrown  back 
invitingly,  but  the  broad  flags  of  the  pavement, 
overgrown  with  weeds  and  stubby  grass  thrust 
up  between  the  cracks,  showed  but  too  plainly 
how  few  entered  them. 

Some  penitents  crossed  the  small  inclosure  in 
front  of  me,  and  disappeared  within  the  cool 
doorway  of  the  church.  1  turned  to  the  left, 
hugged  the  grateful  shadow  of  the  high  walls, 
reached  the  angle,  opened  my  easel  and  began 
to  paint. 

It  has  a  very  dignified  portal,  this  old  church 
of  San  Hipolito,  with  half  doors  panelled  and 
painted  green,  and  with  great  whitewashed 
statues  of  broken-nosed  saints  flanking  each 
side;  and  I  was  soon  lost  in  the  study  of  its 
ornament  and  color. 

For  a  while  nobody  disturbed  me  or  gave  me 
more  than  a  passing  glance. 

Presently  I  was  conscious  that  an  old  fellow 
watering  some  plants  across  the  court  was 
watching  me  anxiously.  When  I  turned  again 
he  stood  beside  me. 

"  Sefior,  why  do  you  sit  and  look  at  the 
church  ?  " 

89 


A  WHITE  UMBRELLA  IN  MEXICO 

"To  take  it  home  with  me,  mi  amigo." 
"  That  cannot  be.   J  will  tell  the  padre." 
He  was  gone  before  I  could  explain.    In  five 
minutes  he  returned,  pale  and  trembling  and 
without  his  hat.    Behind  him  came  an  old  priest 
with  a  presence  like  a  benediction.    Clinging  to 
his  hands  were  two  boys,  one  with  eyes  like 
diamonds. 

Before  I  could  explain,  the  old  man's  face 
lighted  up  with  a  kindly  smile,  and  he  extended 
his  hand. 

"  Nicolas  is  very  foolish,  sefior.  Do  not  mind 
him.  Stay  where  you  are.  After  service  you 
can  sit  within  the  church  and  paint  the  interior, 
if  you  like.  If  the  boys  will  not  annoy  you, 
please  let  them  watch  you.  It  will  teach  them 
something." 

The  little  fellows  did  not  wait  for  any  further 
discussion.  They  both  kissed  his  hand,  and 
crept  behind  my  easel.  The  youngest,  with 
the  diamond  eyes,  Pacheco,  told  me  without 
drawing  his  breath  his  name,  his  age,  where  he 
went  to  school,  that  the  good  padre  was  his 
uncle,  that  his  father  had  been  dead  forever 
almost,  and  that  they  lived  across  the  way  with 
their  mother.  The  oldest  stood  by  silently, 
watching  every  movement  of  my  brush  as  if 
his  life  depended  on  it. 
90 


IN  THE  CITY'S  STREETS 

"And  do  you  love  the  padre?"  I  asked, 
turning  towards  him. 

"  Yes."  He  replied  in  a  quick,  decided  tone, 
as  if  it  was  a  sacrilege  to  question  it.  "  And  so 
would  you.  Everybody,  everybody,  loves  the 
padre." 

"  Is  it  not  true  ?"  This  last  to  the  sacristan, 
who  had  come  out  to  see  the  painter,  the  ser- 
vice having  begun. 

The  sacristan  not  only  confirmed  this,  but 
gave  me  a  running  account  of  the  misfortunes 
of  the  church  even  in  his  day,  of  its  great  pov- 
erty, of  the  changes  he  had  seen  himself.  No 
more  processions,  no  more  grand  masses ;  on 
Easter  Sunday  there  was  not  even  money  enough 
to  buy  candles.  He  remembered  a  lamp  as  high 
as  this  wall  that  was  stolen  by  the  government, 
—  this  in  a  whisper  behind  his  hand,  —  all  solid 
silver,  and  a  pair  of  candlesticks  as  big  round  as 
the  tree  yonder,  all  melted  down  to  pay  for 
soldiers.  Caramba  !  It  was  terrible.  But  for  the 
holy  padre  there  would  be  no  service  at  all. 
When  the  padre  was  young  he  lived  in  the 
priest's  house  and  rode  in  his  carriage.  Now  he 
is  an  old  man,  and  must  live  with  his  sister  over 
a  posada.  The  world  was  certainly  coming  to 
an  end. 

I  let  the  old  sacristan  ramble  along,  wishing 


A  WHITE  UMBRELLA  IN  MEXICO 

the  service  over,  that  I  might  see  again  the  good 
padre  whom  everybody  loved. 

Soon  the  handful  of  people  who,  during  the 
previous  hour,  had  stolen  in,  as  it  were,  one  by 
one,  crowded  up  the  doorway  and  dispersed.  It 
was  a  meagre  gathering  at  best. 

Then  the  old  priest  came  out  into  the  sunlight, 
and  shaded  his  eyes  with  his  hand,  searching 
for  me  in  the  shadowed  angle  of  the  wall.  As 
he  walked  across  the  court  I  had  time  to  note 
the  charming  dignity  of  his  manner,  and  the 
almost  childlike  smile  that  played  across  his 
features.  His  hair  was  silver  white,  his  black 
frock  faded  and  patched,  though  neatly  kept, 
and  his  broad  hat  of  a  pattern  and  date  of  long 
ago.  The  boys  sprang  up,  ran  to  him,  caught 
him  about  the  knees,  and  kissed  his  hands.  Not 
as  if  it  was  a  mark  of  devotion  or  respect,  but 
as  if  they  could  not  help  it.  The  sacristan  un- 
covered his  head.  For  myself,  I  must  confess 
that  I  was  bareheaded  and  on  my  feet  before  I 
knew  it.  Would  I  come  to  his  house  and  have 
a  cup  of  coffee  with  him  ?  It  was  but  across  the 
street.  The  sacristan  would  see  that  my  traps 
were  not  disturbed.  At  this  the  boys  danced 
up  and  down,  broke  through  the  gate,  and  when 
we  reached  the  narrow  door  that  led  to  the  bal- 
cony above,  Pacheco  had  already  dragged  his 
92 


IN  THE  CITY'S  STREETS 

mother  to  the  railing,  to  see  the  painter  the  good 
padre  was  bringing  home. 

It  was  a  curious  home  for  a  priest.  There 
were  but  three  rooms,  all  fronting  on  a  balcony 
of  the  second  floor,  overlooking  a  garden  in 
which  clothes  were  drying  among  and  above 
the  foliage.  It  was  clean  and  cheery,  however. 
Some  pots  of  flowers  bloomed  in  the  windows, 
and  there  was  a  rocking-chair  covered  with  a 
cotton  cloth,  a  lounge  with  cushions,  a  few 
books  and  knickknacks,  besides  a  square  table 
holding  a  brass  crucifix  and  two  candles.  In  the 
corner  of  the  adjoining  room  was  an  iron  bed- 
stead and  a  few  articles  of  furniture.  This  was 
where  the  padre  slept. 

"The  times  are  changed,  good  father?"  I 
asked,  when  he  had  finished  filling  his  cup. 

"Yes,  my  son,  and  for  the  worse."  And 
then  clearly  but  without  bitterness,  or  any  other 
feeling  apparently,  except  the  deepest  sorrow, 
he  told  me  the  story  of  the  downfall  of  his 
church  in  Mexico.  It  is  needless  to  repeat  it 
here.  The  old  father  thought  only  of  the  pomp, 
and  splendor,  and  power  for  good,  of  the  reli- 
gion he  loved,  and  could  not  see  the  degradation 
of  the  days  he  mourned.  Within  a  stone's  throw 
of  where  we  sat  the  flowers  were  blooming, 
and  the  palms  waving  in  the  plaza  of  San  Diego, 

93 


A  WHITE  UMBRELLA  IN  MEXICO 

over  the  exact  spot  where,  less  than  a  century 
ago,  the  smoke  of  the  auto  defe  curled  away 
in  the  sunlight.  I  did  not  remind  him  of  it.  His 
own  life  had  been  so  full  of  every  good  deed, 
and  Christian  charity,  and  all  his  own  waking 
hours  had  been  so  closely  spent  either  at  altar 
or  bedside,  that  he  could  not  have  understood 
how  terrible  could  be  the  power  of  the  church 
he  revered,  perverted  and  misused. 

When  he  ceased  he  drew  a  deep  sigh,  rose 
from  his  chair,  and  disappeared  into  the  adjoin- 
ing room.  In  a  few  moments  he  returned,  bearing 
in  his  arms  a  beautiful  cope  embroidered  in  sil- 
ver on  white  satin. 

"  This,  my  son,"  said  he,  "  is  the  last  relic 
of  value  in  San  Hip61ito.  It  is,  as  you  see,  very 
precious  and  very  old.  A  present  from  Pope  In- 
nocent XII.,  who  sent  it  to  the  brotherhood,  the 
Hip61itos,  in  the  year  1700.  The  pieces  that 
came  with  it,  the  chasubles,  stole,  and  other 
vestments,  are  gone.  This  I  keep  by  my  bed- 
side." 

He  folded  it  carefully,  returned  it  to  its  hid- 
ing-place, and  accompanied  me  to  the  outer 
door.  I  can  see  him  now,  his  white  hair  glis- 
tening in  the  light,  the  boys  clinging  to  his 
hands. 


94 


VII 
ON  THE  PASEO 

THE  English  dogcart  and  the  French  bon- 
net have  just  broken  out  in  the  best  so- 
ciety of  Mexico.  The  disease  doubtless  came  in 
with  the  railroads. 

At  present  the  cases  are  sporadic,  and  only 
the  young  caballero  who  knows  Piccadilly  and 
the  gay  senorita  who  has  watched  the  brilliant 
procession  pass  under  the  Arc  de  Triomphe  are 
affected.  But  it  is  nevertheless  evident  that  in 
the  larger  cities  the  contagion  is  spreading,  and 
that  in  a  few  years  it  will  become  epidemic. 

Nowhere  should  the  calamity  of  a  change  in 
national  habits  and  costumes  be  more  regretted 
than  here.  Stroll  up  the  Paseo  de  la  Reforma 
at  sundown,  —  the  Champs  Elysees  of  Mexico, 
—  and  watch  the  endless  procession  of  open 
carriages  filled  with  beautiful  women  with  filmy 
mantillas  shading  their  dark  eyes,  the  countless 
riders  mounted  on  spirited  horses,  with  saddle 
pommels  hung  with  lasso  and  lariat ;  run  your 

95 


A  WHITE  UMBRELLA  IN  MEXICO 

eye  along  the  sidewalk  thronged  with  people, 
and  over  the  mounted  soldiers  in  intermittent 
groups,  policing  the  brilliant  pageant,  and  tell 
me  if  anywhere  else  in  the  world  you  have  seen 
so  rich  and  novel  a  sight. 

A  carriage  passes,  and  a  velvet-eyed  beauty 
in  saluting  an  admirer  drops  her  handkerchief. 
In  an  instant  he  wheels,  dashes  forward,  and 
before  you  can  think,  he  has  picked  up  the 
dainty  perfumed  cambric  from  the  dust  without 
leaving  his  saddle,  and  all  with  the  ease  and 
grace  of  a  Comanche. 

Should  a  horse  become  unmanageable  and 
plunge  down  the  overcrowded  thoroughfare, 
there  are  half  a  dozen  riders  within  sight  who 
can  overtake  him  before  he  has  run  a  stone's 
throw,  loop  a  lasso  over  his  head,  and  tumble 
him  into  the  road.  Not  ranchmen  out  for  an 
afternoon  airing,  but  kid-gloved  dandies  in  white 
buckskin  and  silver,  with  waxed  mustaches, 
who  learned  this  trick  on  the  haciendas  when 
they  were  boys,  and  to  whom  it  is  as  easy  as 
breathing.  It  is  difficult  to  imagine  any  suc- 
ceeding generation  sitting  back-a-back  to  a  knee- 
breeched  flunkey,  and  driving  a  curtailed  cob 
before  a  pair  of  lumbering  cart-wheels. 

Analyze  the  features  of  a  Spanish  or  Mexican 
beauty,  —  the  purple-black  hair,  long  drooping 


ON  THE  PASEO 

lashes,  ivory-white  skin,  the  sinking,  half- 
swooning  indolence  of  her  manner.  Note  how 
graceful  and  becoming  are  the  clinging  folds  of 
her  mantilla,  falling  to  the  shoulders,  and  los- 
ing itself  in  the  undulating  lines  of  her  exqui- 
site figure.  Imagine  a  cockchafer  of  a  bonnet, 
an  abomination  of  beads,  bows,  and  bangles, 
surmounting  this  ideal  inamorata.  The  shock 
is  about  as  great  as  if  some  scoffer  tied  a  sea- 
side hat  under  the  chin  of  the  Venus  de  Milo. 

Verilythe  illustrated  newspaperand  the  ready- 
made  clothing  man  have  reduced  the  costume 
of  the  civilized  and  semi-barbarous  world  to  the 
level  of  the  commonplace  !  I  thank  my  lucky 
stars  that  I  still  know  a  few  out-of-the-way 
corners  where  the  castanet  and  high  -  heeled 
shoe,  the  long,  flowing,  many-colored  tunic, 
the  white  sabot  and  snowy  cap,  and  the  sandal 
and  sombrero,  are  still  left  to  delight  me  with 
their  picturesqueness,  their  harmony  of  color 
and  grace. 

All  these  reflections  came  to  me  as  I  strolled 
up  the  Reforma,  elbowing  my  way  along,  avoid- 
ing the  current,  or  crossing  it  for  the  shelter  of 
one  of  the  tree  trunks  lining  the  sidewalks, 
behind  which  I  made  five-minute  outlines  of 
the  salient  features  of  the  moving  panorama. 
When  I  reached  the  statue  of  Columbus,  the 

97 


A  WHITE  UMBRELLA  IN  MEXICO 

crowd  became  uncomfortable,  especially  that 
part  which  had  formed  a  "  cue,"  with  the  head 
looking  over  my  sketch-book,  and  so  I  hailed  a 
cab  and  drove  away  towards  the  castle  of  Cha- 
pultepec.  The  Paseo  ends  at  this  famous  spot. 

The  fortress  is  built  upon  a  hill  that  rises 
some  two  hundred  feet  above  the  valley,  and  is 
environed  by  a  noble  park  and  garden,  above 
which  tower  the  famous  groves  of  hoary  cy- 
presses. On  this  commanding  eminence  once 
stood  the  palace  of  Montezuma,  if  we  may  be- 
lieve the  traditions.  Indeed,  Prescott  dilates 
with  enthusiasm  upon  the  details  of  its  splen- 
dor, and  of  its  luxuriant  adornment,  these  same 
cypresses  playing  an  important  part  in  the 
charming  extravaganza  with  which  he  delighted 
our  youth.  The  records  say  that  when  the 
haughty  Spaniard  knocked  at  the  city's  gate 
and  demanded  his  person,  his  treasure,  and  his 
arms,  the  vacillating  monarch  retired  to  the  cool 
shadows  of  these  then  ancient  groves,  collected 
together  a  proper  percentage  of  his  wives,  and 
wept.  This  may  be  fiction,  and  that  pious  old 
monk,  Bernal  Diaz,  Cortez's  scribe,  inspired  by 
a  lively  sense  of  the  value  of  his  own  head,  and 
with  a  loyal  desire  to  save  his  master's,  may 
alone  be  responsible  for  it. 

For  this  I  care  little.  The  trees  are  still  here, 
98 


ON  THE  PASEO 

the  very  same  old  gnarled  and  twisted  trunks. 
The  tawny  Indian  in  feathers,  the  grim  cavalier 
in  armor ;  fine  ladies  in  lace ;  hidalgos  in  vel- 
vet, all  the  gay  throngs  who  have  enlivened 
these  shady  aisles,  each  bedecked  after  the  man- 
ner and  custom  of  their  times,  are  gone.  But 
the  old  trees  still  stand. 

What  the  great  kings  of  Tenochtitlan  saw  as 
they  looked  up  into  their  sheltering  branches,  I 
see  :  the  ribbed  brown  bark  sparkling  with  gray 
green  lichen  ;  the  sweep  of  the  wrinkled  trunk 
rushing  upward  into  outspreading  arms;  the 
clear  sky  turquoised  amid  matted  foliage ;  the 
gray  moss  waving  in  the  soft  air.  With  these 
alive  and  above  me,  I  can  imagine  the  rest,  and 
so  I  pick  out  a  particularly  comfortable  old  root 
that  curves  out  from  beneath  one  of  the  great 
giants,  and  sit  me  down  and  persuade  myself 
that  all  the  Aztec  kings  have  been  wont  to  rest 
their  bones  thereon.  From  where  I  lounge,  I 
can  see  away  up  among  the  top  branches  the 
castle  and  buildings  of  the  military  school,  and 
at  intervals  hear  the  bugle  sounding  the  after- 
noon's drill.  Later  I  toil  up  the  steep  ascent, 
and  from  the  edge  of  the  stone  parapet  skirting 
the  bluff,  drink  in  the  glory  and  beauty  of  per- 
haps the  finest  landscape  in  the  world. 

There  are  two  views  which  always  rise  up  in 

99 


A  WHITE  UMBRELLA  IN  MEXICO 

my  memory  when  a  grand  panoramic  vision 
bursts  upon  me  suddenly.  One  is  from  a  spot 
in  the  Sierra  Nevada  Mountains,  in  Granada, 
called  "La  Ultima  Suspira  de  Mores."  It  is 
where  Boabdil  stood  and  wept  when  he  looked 
for  the  last  time  over  the  beautiful  valley  of 
the  Vega,  —  the  loveliest  garden  in  Spain,  —  the 
red  towers  and  terraces  of  the  Alhambra  bathed 
in  the  setting  sun.  The  other  is  this  great 
sweep  of  plain  and  distant  mountain  range, 
with  all  its  wealth  of  palm,  orange,  and  olive  ; 
the  snow-capped  twin  peaks  dominating  the 
horizon;  the  silver  line  of  the  distant  lakes;  and 
the  fair  city,  the  Tenochtitlan  of  the  ancient,  the 
Eldorado  of  Cortez,  sparkling  like  a  jewel  in 
the  midst  of  this  vast  stretch  of  green  and  gold. 

Both  monarchs  wept  over  their  dominions, — 
Boabdil,  that  the  power  of  his  race  which  for 
six  hundred  years  had  ruled  Spain  was  broken, 
and  that  the  light  of  the  Crescent  had  paled 
forever  in  the  effulgence  of  the  rising  Cross ; 
Montezuma,  that  the  fires  of  his  temples  had 
forever  gone  out,  and  that  henceforward  his 
people  were  slaves. 

Sitting  here  alone    on  this  stone    parapet, 

watching    the    fading    sunlight  and  the   long 

creeping  shadows,  and  comparing  Mexico  and 

Spain  of  to-day  with  what  we  know  to  be  true 

100 


ON  THE  PASEO 

of  the  Moors,  and  what  we  hope  was  true  of  the 
Aztecs,  and  being  in  a  reflective  frame  of  mind, 
it  becomes  a  question  with  me  whether  the 
civilized  world  ought  not  to  have  mingled  their 
tears  with  both  potentates.  The  delightful  his- 
torian sums  it  up  in  this  way:  — 

"  Spain  has  the  unenviable  credit  of  having 
destroyed  two  great  civilizations." 

Full  of  these  reveries,  and  with  the  question 
undecided,  I  retraced  my  steps  past  the  boy 
sentinels,  down  the  long  hill,  through  the  gar- 
dens and  cypresses,  and  out  into  the  broad  road 
skirting  the  great  aqueduct  of  Bucareli.  There 
I  hailed  a  cab,  and  whirled  into  the  city  brilliant 
with  lights,  and  so  home  to  my  lodgings  over- 
looking the  old  convent  garden. 


101 


VIII 

PALM    SUNDAY    IN    PUEBLA     DE    LOS 
ANGELES 

SOME  one  hundred  miles  from  the  city  of 
Mexico,  and  within  twice  that  distance  of 
Vera  Cruz  and  the  sea,  and  some  seven  thou- 
sand feet  up  into  the  clear,  crisp  air,  lies  the 
city  of  Puebla.  The  streets  are  broad  and  clean, 
the  plazas  filled  with  trees  and  rich  in  flowers, 
the  markets  exceptionally  interesting.  Above 
this  charming  city  tower,  like  huge  sentinels, 
the  two  great  volcanoes  Popocatepetl  and  Iztac- 
cihuatl. 

The  legend  of  its  founding  is  quaint  and 
somewhat  characteristic ;  moreover,  there  is 
no  shadow  of  doubt  as  to  its  truth. 

The  good  Fray  Julian  Garces,  the  first  conse- 
crated bishop  of  the  Catholic  Church  in  Mexico, 
conceived  the  most  praiseworthy  plan  of  found- 
ing, somewhere  between  the  coast  and  the  city 
of  Mexico,  a  haven  of  refuge  and  safe  resting- 
place  for  weary  travellers.  Upon  pne  eventful 


PALM  SUNDAY   IN  PUEBLA  DE  LOS  ANGELES 

night,  when  his  mind  was  filled  with  this  no- 
ble resolve,  he  beheld  a  lovely  plain,  bounded 
by  the  great  slope  of  the  volcanoes,  watered 
by  two  rivers,  and  dotted  by  many  ever-living 
springs,  making  all  things  fresh  and  green.  As 
he  gazed,  his  eyes  beheld  two  angels,  with  line 
and  rod,  measuring  bounds  and  distances  upon 
the  ground.  After  seeing  the  vision,  the  bishop 
awoke,  and  that  very  hour  set  out  to  search  for 
the  site  the  angels  had  shown  him  ;  upon  find- 
ing which  he  joyously  exclaimed,  "  This  is  the 
site  the  Lord  has  chosen  through  his  holy  an- 
gels, and  here  shall  the  city  be  ;  "  and  even 
now  the  most  charming  and  delightful  of  all 
the  cities  on  the  southern  slope  is  this  Puebla 
de  los  Angeles.  Nothing  has  occurred  since  to 
shake  confidence  in  the  wisdom  of  the  good 
bishop,  nor  impair  the  value  of  his  undertaking, 
and  to-day  the  idler,  the  antiquary,  and  the 
artist  rise  up  and  call  him  blessed. 

But  the  pious  bishop  did  not  stop  here.  As 
early  as  1536  he  laid  the  corner-stone  of  the 
present  cathedral,  completed  one  hundred  and 
fifty  years  later.  This  noble  edifice,  in  its  interior 
adornments,  lofty  nave,  broad  aisles  divided  by 
massive  stone  columns,  inlaid  floor  of  colored 
marble,  altars,  chapels,  and  choirs,  as  well  as 
in  its  grand  exterior,  raised  upon  a  terrace  and 
103 


A  WHITE  UMBRELLA  IN  MEXICO 

surmounted  by  majestic  towers,  is  by  far  the 
most  stately  and  beautiful  of  all  the  great  build- 
ings of  Mexico. 

Before  I  reached  the  huge  swinging  doors, 
carved  and  heavily  ironed,  I  knew  it  was  Palm 
Sunday  ;  for  the  streets  were  filled  with  people, 
each  one  carrying  a  long,  thin  leaf  of  the  sago 
palm,  and  the  balconies  crowded  with  children 
twisting  the  sacred  leaves  over  the  iron  railings, 
to  mark  a  blessing  for  the  house  until  the  next 
festival. 

I  had  crossed  the  plaza,  where  I  had  been 
loitering  under  the  trees,  making  memoranda 
in  my  sketch-book  of  the  groups  of  Indians 
lounging  on  the  benches  in  the  shade,  and 
sketching  the  outlines  of  bunches  of  little  don- 
keys dozing  in  the  sun  ;  and,  mounting  the 
raised  terrace  upon  which  the  noble  pile  is  built, 
found  myself  in  the  cool,  incense-laden  interior. 
The  aisles  were  a  moving  mass  of  people  waving 
palms  over  their  heads,  the  vista  looking  like 
great  fields  of  ferns  in  the  wind.  The  service  was 
still  in  progress,  and  the  distant  bursts  of  the 
organ  resounded  at  intervals  through  the  arches. 

I  wedged  my  way  between  the  throngs  of 

worshippers, — some  kneeling,  some  shuffling 

along,  keeping  step  with  the  crowd,  —  past 

the  inlaid  stalls,  exquisite  carvings,  and  gilded 

104 


PALM  SUNDAY  IN  PUEBLA  DE  LOS  ANGELES 

figures  of  saints,  until  I  reached  the  door  of  the 
sacristy.  I  always  search  out  the  sacristy.  It 
contains  the  movable  property  of  the  church, 
and  as  I  have  a  passion  for  moving  it,  —  when 
the  sacristan  is  of  the  same  mind,  —  I  always 
find  it  the  most  attractive  corner  of  any  sacred 
interior. 

The  room  was  superb.  The  walls  were  cov- 
ered with  paintings  set  in  gilded  frames  ;  the 
chests  of  drawers  were  crammed  with  costly 
vestments  ;  two  exquisite  tables  covered  with 
slabs  of  onyx  stood  on  one  side,  while  upon 
a  raised  shelf  above  them  were  ranged  eight 
superb  Japanese  Imari  jars,  —  for  water,  I 
presumed. 

When  I  entered,  a  line  of  students  near  the 
door  were  being  robed  in  white  starched  gar- 
ments by  the  sacristan  ;  groups  of  priests,  in 
twos  and  threes,  some  in  vestments,  others  in 
street  robes,  were  chatting  together  on  an  old 
settle  ;  and  an  aged,  white-haired  bishop  was 
listening  intently  to  a  young  priest  dressed  in  a 
dark  purple  gown,  —  both  outlined  against  an 
open  window.  The  whole  effect  reminded  me  of 
one  of  Vibert's  pictures.  I  was  so  absorbed  that  I 
remained  motionless  in  the  middle  of  the  room, 
gazing  awkwardly  about.  The  next  moment 
the  light  was  shut  out,  and  I  half  smothered  in 
105 


A  WHITE  UMBRELLA  IN  MEXICO 

the  folds  of  a  muslin  skirt.  I  had  been  mistaken 
for  a  student  chorister,  and  the  sacristan  would 
have  slipped  the  garment  over  my  head  but  for 
my  breathless  protest.  Had  I  known  the  ser- 
vice, I  think  I  should  have  risked  the  conse- 
quences. 

The  sacristy  opened  into  the  chapter-room. 
The  wanderer  who  thinks  he  must  go  to  Italy 
to  find  grand  interiors  should  stand  at  the 
threshold  of  this  room  and  look  in  ;  or,  still 
better,  rest  his  weary  bones  for  half  an  hour 
within  the  perfectly  proportioned,  vaulted,  and 
domed  apartment,  hung  with  Flemish  tapestry 
and  covered  with  paintings,  and  examine  it  at 
his  leisure.  He  can  select  any  one  of  the  su- 
perb old  Spanish  chairs  presented  by  Charles 
V.,  thirty-two  of  which  line  the  walls ;  then, 
being  rested,  he  can  step  into  the  middle  of  the 
room,  and  feast  his  eyes  upon  a  single  slab  of 
Mexican  onyx  covering  a  table  large  enough  for 
a  grand  council  of  bishops.  I  confess  I  stood  for 
an  instant  amazed,  wondering  whether  I  was 
really  in  Mexico,  across  its  thousand  miles  of 
dust,  or  had  wandered  into  some  old  palace  of 
church  in  Verona  or  Padua. 

At  the  far  end  of  this  chapter-room  sat  a 
grave-looking  priest,  absorbed  in  his  breviary. 
I  approached  him,  hat  in  hand. 
106 


PALM  SUNDAY  IN  PUEBLA  DE  LOS  ANGELES 

"  Holy  father,  I  am  a  stranger  and  a  painter. 
I  know  the  service  is  in  progress,  and  that  I 
should  not  now  intrude  ;  but  this  room  is  so 
beautiful,  and  my  stay  in  Puebla  so  short,  that 
I  must  crave  your  permission  to  enter." 

He  laid  down  his  book.  "  Miamigo,  you  are 
welcome.  Wander  about  where  you  will,  here 
and  by  the  altar.  You  will  disturb  no  one.  You 
painters  always  revere  the  church,  for  within 
its  walls  your  greatest  works  are  held  sacred." 

I  thought  that  very  neat  for  a  priest  just 
awakened  from  a  reverie,  and,  thanking  him, 
examined  greedily  the  superb  old  carved  chair 
he  had  just  vacated.  I  did  revere  the  church, 
and  told  him  so,  but  all  the  same  I  coveted  the 
chair,  and  but  for  his  compliment  and  devout 
air  would  have  dared  to  open  negotiations  for 
its  possession.  1  reasoned,  iconoclast  that  I  am, 
that  it  would  hardly  be  missed  among  its  fel- 
lows, and  that  perhaps  one  of  those  frightful 
renovations,  constantly  taking  place  in  Mexican 
churches,  might  overtake  this  beautiful  room, 
when  new  mahogany  horrors  might  replace 
these  exquisite  relics  of  the  sixteenth  century, 
and  the  whole  set  be  claimed  by  the  second- 
hand man  or  the  wood-pile. 

Then  I  strolled  out  into  the  church  with  that 
vacant  air  which  always  marks  one  in  a  building 
107 


A  WHITE  UMBRELLA  IN  MEXICO 

new  to  him,  —  especially  when  it  overwhelms 
him,  —  gazing  up  at  the  nave,  reading  the  in- 
scriptions under  the  pictures,  and  idling  about 
the  aisles.  Soon  I  came  to  a  confessional  box. 
There  I  sat  down  behind  a  protecting  column. 

There  is  a  fascination  about  the  confessional 
which  I  can  never  escape.  Here  sits  the  old 
news-gatherer  and  safe-deposit  vault  of  every- 
body's valuable  secrets,  peaceful  and  calm 
within  the  seclusion  of  his  grated  cabinet ;  and 
here  come  a  troop  of  people,  telling  him  all  the 
good  and  bad  things  of  their  lives,  and  leaving 
with  him  for  safe-keeping  their  most  precious 
property,  — their  misdeeds.  What  a  collection 
of  broken  bonds,  dishonored  names,  and  debts 
of  ingratitude  must  he  be  custodian  of ! 

The  good  father  before  me  was  a  kindly- 
faced,  plethoric  old  man  ;  a  little  deaf,  I  should 
judge,  from  the  fanning  motion  of  his  left  hand, 
forming  a  sounding-board  for  his  ear.  About 
him  were  a  group  of  penitents,  patiently  await- 
ing their  turns.  When  I  halted  and  sought  the 
shelter  of  the  pillar,  the  closely  veiled  and  muf- 
fled figure  of  a  richly  dressed  senora  was  bowed 
before  him.  She  remained  a  few  moments,  and 
then  slipped  away,  and  another  figure  took  her 
place  at  the  grating. 

I  raised  my  eyes  wistfully,  wondering  whether 
108 


PALM  SUNDAY  IN  PUEBLA  DE  LOS  ANGELES 

I  could  read  the  old  fellow's  face,  which  was  in 
strong  light,  sufficiently  well  to  get  some  sort 
of  an  inkling  of  her  confidences  ;  but  no  cloud 
of  sorrow,  or  ruffle  of  anger,  or  gleam  of  curios- 
ity passed  over  it.  It  was  as  expressionless  as 
a  harvest  moon,  and  placid  as  a  mountain  lake. 
At  times  I  even  fancied  he  was  asleep  ;  then 
his  little  eyes  would  open  slowly  and  peep  out 
keenly,  and  I  knew  he  had  only  been  assorting 
and  digesting  his  several  informations. 

One  after  another  they  dropped  away  si- 
lently, —  the  Indian  in  his  zarape,  the  old  man 
in  sandals,  and  the  sad-faced  woman  with  a 
black  rebozo  twisted  about  her  throat.  Each 
had  prostrated  himself,  and  poured  through  that 
six  inches  of  space  the  woes  that  weighed  heavy 
on  his  soul.  The  good  father  listened  to  them 
all.  His  patience  and  equanimity  seemed  mar- 
vellous. 

I  became  so  engrossed  that  I  forgot  I  was  an 
eavesdropper,  and  could  make  no  sort  of  ex- 
cuse for  my  vulgar  curiosity  which  would  satisfy 
any  one  upon  whose  privacy  I  intruded  ;  and, 
coming  to  this  conclusion,  was  about  to  shoul- 
der my  trap  and  move  off,  when  I  caught  sight 
of  a  short,  thickset  young  Mexican,  muffled  to 
his  chin  in  a  zarape.  He  was  leaning  against 
the  opposite  column,  watching  earnestly  the 
109 


A  WHITE  UMBRELLA  IN  MEXICO 

same  confessional  box,  his  black,  bead-like  eyes 
riveted  upon  the  priest.  In  his  hand  he  held  a 
small  red  cap,  with  which  he  partially  concealed 
his  face.  It  was  not  prepossessing,  the  fore- 
head being  low  and  receding,  and  the  mouth 
firm  and  cruel. 

As  each  penitent  turned  away,  the  man  edged 
nearer  to  the  priest,  with  a  movement  that  at- 
tracted me.  It  was  like  that  of  an  animal  slowly 
yielding  to  the  power  of  a  snake.  He  was  now 
so  close  that  I  could  see  great  drops  of  sweat 
running  down  his  temples;  his  breath  came 
thick  and  short ;  his  whole  form,  sturdy  fellow 
as  he  was,  trembled  and  shook.  The  cap  was 
now  clenched  in  his  fist  and  pressed  to  his  breast, 
—  the  eyes  still  fastened  on  the  priest,  and  the 
feet  moving  a  few  inches  at  a  time.  When  the 
last  penitent  had  laid  her  face  against  the  grat- 
ing, he  fell  upon  his  knees  behind  her  and  buried 
his  face  in  his  hands.  When  she  was  gone  he 
threw  himself  forward  in  her  place  and  clutched 
the  grating  with  a  moan  that  startled  me. 

I  arose  from  my  seat,  edged  around  the  pillar, 
and  got  the  light  more  clearly  on  the  priest's 
face.  It  was  as  calm  and  serene  as  a  wooden 
saint's. 

For  a  few  moments  the  Mexican  lay  in  a  heap 
at  the  grating ;  then  he  raised  his  head,  and 
no 


PALM  SUNDAY  IN  PUEBLA  DE  LOS  ANGELES 

looked  cautiously  about  him.  I  shrank  into  the 
shadow.  The  face  was  ghastly  pale,  the  lips 
trembled,  the  eyes  started  from  his  head.  The 
priest  leaned  forward  wearily,  his  ear  to  the 
iron  lattice.  The  man's  lips  began  to  move  ;  the 
confession  had  begun.  Both  figures  remained 
motionless,  the  man  whispering  eagerly,  and 
the  priest  listening  patiently.  Suddenly  the  good 
father  started  forward,  bent  down,  and  scanned 
the  man's  face  searchingly  through  the  grating. 
In  another  instant  he  uttered  a  half-smothered 
cry  of  horror,  covered  his  face  with  the  sleeve 
of  his  robe,  and  fell  back  on  his  seat. 

The  man  edged  around  on  his  knees  from  the 
side  grating  to  the  front  of  the  confessional,  and 
bowed  his  head  to  the  lower  step  of  the  box. 
For  several  minutes  neither  moved.  I  flattened 
myself  against  the  column,  and  became  a  part  of 
the  architecture.  Then  the  priest,  with  blanched 
face,  leaned  forward  over  the  half  door,  and  laid 
his  hand  on  the  penitent.  The  man  raised  his 
head,  clutched  the  top  of  the  half  door,  bent 
forward,  and  glued  his  lips  to  the  priest's  ear. 
I  reached  down  noiselessly  for  my  sketch-trap, 
peeled  myself  from  the  column  as  one  would  a 
wet  handbill,  and,  keeping  the  pillar  between 
me  and  the  confessional,  made  a  straight  line 
for  the  sacristy. 

in 


A  WHITE  UMBRELLA  IN  MEXICO 

Before  I  reached  the  door  the  priest  overtook 
me,  crossed  the  room,  and  disappeared  through 
a  smaller  door  in  the  opposite  wall.  I  turned  to 
avoid  him,  and  caught  sight  of  the  red  cap  of 
the  Mexican  pressing  his  way  hurriedly  to  the 
street.  Waiting  until  he  was  lost  in  the  throng, 
1  drew  a  long  breath,  and  dropped  upon  a  bench. 

The  faces  of  both  man  and  priest  haunted  me. 
I  had  evidently  been  the  unsuspected  witness 
of  one  of  those  strange  confidences  existing  in 
Catholic  countries  between  the  criminal  and  the 
Church.  I  had  also  been  in  extreme  personal 
danger.  A  crime  so  terrible  that  the  bare  recital 
of  it  shocked  to  demoralization  so  unimpression- 
able a  priest  as  the  good  father  was  safe  in  his 
ear  alone.  Had  there  been  a  faint  suspicion  in 
the  man's  mind  that  I  had  overheard  any  part 
of  his  story,  my  position  would  have  been  dan- 
gerous. 

But  what  could  have  been  the  crime  ?  I  re- 
flected that  even  an  inquiry  looking  towards  its 
solution  would  be  equally  hazardous,  and  so 
tried  to  banish  the  incident  from  my  mind. 

A  jar  upon  the  other  end  of  the  bench  awoke 
me  from  my  reverie.  A  pale,  neatly  dressed, 
sad-looking  young  fellow  had  just  sat  down. 
He  apologized  for  disturbing  me,  and  the  courtesy 
led  to  his  moving  up  to  my  end. 
112 


PALM  SUNDAY  IN  PUEBLA  DE  LOS  ANGELES 

"English?" 

"  No,  from  New  York." 

"  What  do  you  sell  ?" 

"  Nothing.  I  paint.  This  trap  contains  my 
canvas  and  colors.  What  do  you  do  ?"  I  asked. 

"  I  am  a  clerk  in  the  Department  of  Justice. 
The  office  is  closed  to-day,  and  I  have  come  into 
the  church  out  of  the  heat,  because  it  is  cool." 

I  sounded  him  carefully,  was  convinced  of  his 
honesty,  and  related  the  incident  of  the  confes- 
sional. He  was  not  surprised.  On  the  contrary, 
he  recounted  to  me  many  similar  instances  in  his 
own  experience,  explaining  that  it  is  quite  nat- 
ural for  a  man  haunted  by  a  crime  to  seek  the 
quiet  of  a  church,  and  that  often  the  relief  af- 
forded by  the  confessional  wrings  from  him  his 
secret.  No  doubt  my  case  was  one  of  these. 

"And  is  the  murderer  safe  ?" 

"From  the  priest,  yes.  The  police  agents, 
however,  always  watch  the  churches." 

While  we  were  speaking  an  officer  passed, 
bowed  to  my  companion,  retraced  his  steps,  and 
said,  "  There  has  been  an  important  arrest. 
You  may  perhaps  be  wanted." 

I  touched  the  speaker's  arm.  "  Pardon  me. 
Was  it  made  near  the  cathedral  ?" 

"  Yes ;  outside  the  great  door." 

"  What  was  the  color  of  his  cap  ?" 
113 


A  WHITE  UMBRELLA  IN  MEXICO 

He  turned  sharply,  looked  at  me  searchingly, 
and  said,  lowering  his  voice,  — 

"Red." 

A  few  days  later  I  wandered  into  the  market- 
place, in  search  of  a  subject.  My  difficulty  was 
simply  one  of  selection.  I  could  have  opened 
my  easel  at  random  and  made  half  a  dozen 
sketches  without  leaving  my  stool ;  but  where 
there  is  so  much  wealth  of  material  one  is  apt 
to  be  overcritical,  and,  being  anxious  to  pick 
out  the  best,  often  loses  the  esprit  of  the  first 
impression,  and  so  goes  away  without  a  line. 
It  was  not  the  fault  of  the  day  or  the  market. 
The  sun  was  brilliant  beyond  belief,  the  sky 
superb;  the  open  square  of  the  older  section 
was  filled  with  tumble-down  bungalow-like 
sheds,  hung  with  screens  of  patched  matting  ; 
the  sidewalks  were  fringed  with  giant  thatched 
umbrellas,  picturesque  in  the  extreme  ;  the  cos- 
tumes were  rich  and  varied  :  all  this  and  more, 
and  yet  I  was  not  satisfied.  Outside  the  slant- 
ing roofs,  heaped  up  on  the  pavement,  lay  piles 
of  green  vegetables,  pottery,  and  fruit,  glisten- 
ing in  the  dazzling  light.  Inside  the  booths 
hung  festoons  of  bright  stuffs,  rebozos  and  pa- 
nuelos,  gray  and  cool  by  contrast.  Thronging 
crowds  of  natives  streamed  in  and  out  of  the 
sheds,  blocked  up  narrow  passageways,  grouped 
114 


PALM  SUNDAY  IN  PUEBLA  DE  LOS  ANGELES 

in  the  open,  and  disappeared  into  the  black 
shadows  of  an  inviting  archway,  beyond  which 
an  even  crisper  sunlight  glowed  in  dabs,  spots, 
and  splashes  of  luxuriant  color. 

There  was  everything,  in  fact,  to  intoxicate 
a  man  in  search  of  the  picturesque,  and  yet  I 
idled  along  without  opening  my  sketch-book, 
and  for  more  than  an  hour  lugged  my  trap  about: 
deciding  on  a  group  under  the  edge  of  the  arch- 
way, with  a  glimpse  of  blue  in  the  sky  and  the 
towers  of  the  church  beyond  ;  abandoning  that 
instantly  for  a  long  stretch  of  street  leading  out 
of  a  square  dotted  with  donkeys  waiting  to  be 
unloaded  ;  and  concluding,  finally,  to  paint  some 
high-wheeled  carts,  only  to  relinquish  them  all 
for  something  else. 

I  continued,  I  say,  to  waste  thus  foolishly  my 
precious  time,  until,  dazed  and  worn  out,  I 
turned  on  my  heel,  hailed  a  cab,  and  drove  to 
the  old  Paseo.  There  I  entered  the  little  pla- 
%uela,  embowered  in  trees,  sat  down  opposite 
the  delightful  old  church  of  San  Francisco,  and 
was  at  work  in  five  minutes.  When  one  is  daz- 
zled by  a  sunset,  let  him  shut  his  eyes.  After 
the  blaze  of  a  Mexican  market,  try  the  quiet 
grays  of  a  seventeenth-century  church,  seen 
through  soft  foliage  and  across  cool,  shady 
walks. 


A  WHITE  UMBRELLA  IN  MEXICO 

This  church  of  San  Francisco  is  another  of 
the  delightful  old  churches  of  Puebla.  1  re- 
gret that  the  fiend  with  the  bucket  and  the 
flat  brush  has  practically  destroyed  almost  the 
whole  interior  except  the  choir,  which  is  still 
exquisite  with  its  finely  carved  wooden  stalls 
and  rich  organ  ;  but  1  rejoice  that  the  outside, 
with  its  quaint  altar  fronting  on  the  pla^uela 
facade  of  dark  brick  ornamented  with  panels  of 
Spanish  tiles,  stone  carvings,  statues,  and  lofty 
towers,  is  still  untouched,  and  hence  beautiful. 

Adjoining  the  church  is  a  military  hospital 
and  barracks,  formerly  an  old  convent.  I  was 
so  wholly  wrapped  up  in  my  work  that  my 
water-cup  needed  refilling  before  I  looked  up  and 
about  me.  To  my  surprise,  I  was  nearly  sur- 
rounded by  a  squad  of  soldiers  and  half  a  dozen 
officers.  One  fine-looking  old  fellow,  with  gray 
mustache  and  pointed  beard,  stood  so  close  that 
my  elbow  struck  his  knee  when  I  arose. 

The  first  thought  that  ran  through  my  head 
was  my  experience  of  Sunday,  and  my  unpar- 
donable imprudence  in  imparting  my  discov- 
eries of  the  confessional  to  the  sad-faced  young 
man  on  the  bench.  Tracked,  of  course,  I  con- 
cluded, —  arrested  in  the  streets,  and  held  as 
a  witness  on  bread  and  pulque  for  a  week.  No 
passport,  and  an  alibi  out  of  the  question  !  A  sec- 
116 


PALM  SUNDAY  IN  PUEBLA  DE  LOS  ANGELES 

ond  glance  reassured  me.  The  possessor  of  the 
pointed  beard  only  smiled  cordially,  apologized, 
and  seated  himself  on  the  bench  at  my  right. 
His  intentions  were  the  most  peaceful.  It  was 
the  growing  picture  that  absorbed  him  and 
his  fellow  officers  and  men.  They  had  merely 
deployed  noiselessly  in  my  rear,  to  find  out 
what  the  deuce  the  stranger  was  doing  under 
that  white  umbrella.  Only  this,  and  nothing 
more. 

I  was  not  even  permitted  to  fill  my  water- 
bottle.  A  sign  from  my  friend,  and  a  soldier, 
with  his  arm  in  a  sling,  ran  to  the  fountain,  re- 
turned in  a  flash,  and  passed  the  bottle  back  to 
me  with  so  reverential  an  air  that  but  for  the 
deep  earnestness  of  his  manner  1  should  have 
laughed  aloud.  He  seemed  to  regard  the  water- 
bottle  as  the  home  of  the  witch  that  worked  the 
spell. 

After  that  the  circle  was  narrowed,  and  my 
open  cigarette  case  added  a  touch  of  good  fellow- 
ship, everybody  becoming  quite  cosey  and  socia- 
ble. The  officer  was  in  command  of  the  bar- 
racks. His  brother  officers  —  one  after  another 
was  introduced  with  much  form  and  manner  — 
were  on  duty  at  the  hospital  except  one,  who 
was  in  command  of  the  department  of  police  of 
the  city.  A  slight  chill  ran  down  my  spine,  but 
117 


A  WHITE  UMBRELLA  IN  MEXICO 

I  returned  the  commandant's  bow  with  a  smile 
that  established  at  once  the  absolute  purity  of 
my  life. 

For  two  hours,  in  the  cool  of  the  morning, 
under  the  trees  of  the  little  pla^uela,  this  charm- 
ing episode  continued  ;  I  painting,  the  others 
around  me  deeply  interested  ;  all  smoking,  and 
chatting  in  the  friendliest  possible  way.  At  the 
sound  of  a  bugle  the  men  dropped  away,  and 
soon  after  all  the  officers  bowed  and  disappeared, 
except  my  friend  with  the  pointed  beard  and 
the  commandant  of  the  police.  These  two 
moved  their  bench  nearer,  and  sat  down,  deter- 
mined to  watch  the  sketch  to  the  end. 

The  conversation  drifted  into  different  chan- 
nels. The  system  of  policing  the  streets  at 
night  was  explained  to  me,  the  manner  of  ar- 
rest, the  absolute  authority  given  to  the  jefe 
politico  in  the  rural  districts,  —  an  execution 
first,  and  an  investigation  afterwards,  —  the 
necessity  for  such  prompt  action  in  a  country 
abounding  in  bandits,  the  success  of  the  gov- 
ernment in  suppressing  the  evil,  etc. 

"  And  are  the  crimes  confined  wholly  to  the 
country  districts  ?  "  I  asked.  "  Are  your  cities 
safe  ?  " 

"Generally,  yes.  Occasionally  there  is  a 
murder  among  the  lower  classes  of  the  people. 
118 


PALM  SUNDAY  IN  PUEBLA  DE  LOS  ANGELES 

It  is  not  always  for  booty ;  revenge  for  some 
real  or  fancied  injury  often  prompts  it." 

"  Has  there  been  any  particularly  brutal  crime 
committed  here  lately  ?  "  I  asked  carelessly, 
skirting  the  edge  of  my  precipice. 

"  Not  exactly  here.  There  was  one  at  At- 
lixco,  a  small  town  a  few  miles  west  of  here, 
but  the  man  escaped." 

"  Have  you  captured  him  ?  " 

"Not  yet.  There  was  a  man  arrested  here  a 
few  days  ago,  who  is  now  awaiting  examina- 
tion. It  may  be  that  we  have  the  right  one. 
We  shall  know  to-morrow." 

I  kept  at  work,  dabbing  away  at  the  mass  of 
foliage,  and  putting  in  pats  of  shadow  tones. 

"  Was  it  the  man  arrested  near  the  cathe- 
dral on  Palm  Sunday  ?  " 

"There  was  a  man  arrested  on  Palm  Sun- 
day," he  replied  slowly.  "  How  did  you 
know  ?  " 

I  looked  up,  and  found  his  eyes  riveted  on 
me  in  a  peculiar,  penetrating  way. 

"  I  heard  it  spoken  of  in  the  church,"  I  re- 
plied, catching  my  breath.  My  foot  went  over 
the  precipice.  I  could  see  into  the  pit  below. 

"  If  the  American  heard  of  it,"  said  he  in  a 
low  voice,  turning  to  my  friend,  "  it  was  badly 
done." 

119 


A  WHITE  UMBRELLA  IN  MEXICO 

I  filled  a  fresh  brush  with  color,  leaned  over 
my  canvas,  and  before  I  looked  up  a  second 
time  had  regained  my  feet  and  crawled  back  to 
a  safe  spot.  —  I  could  hear  the  stones  go  rum- 
bling down  into  the  abyss  beneath  me.  Then 
I  concentrated  myself  upon  the  details  of  the 
facade,  and  the  officer  began  explaining  the 
early  history  of  the  founding  of  the  church,  and 
the  many  vicissitudes  it  had  experienced  in  the 
great  battles  which  had  raged  around  its  towers. 
By  the  time  he  had  finished  the  cold  look  went 
out  of  his  eyes. 

The  sketch  was  completed,  the  trap  bundled 
up,  three  hats  were  raised,  and  we  separated. 

I  thought  of  the  horror-stricken  face  of  the 
priest  and  the  crouching  figure  of  the  Mexican  ; 
then  I  thought  of  that  penetrating,  steel-like 
glance  of  the  commandant. 

So  far  as  1  know,  the  priest  alone  shares  the 
secret. 


1 20 


IX 
A  DAY  IN   TOLUCA 

HITHERTO  my  travels,  with  the  exception 
of  a  divergence  to  Puebla,  have  been  in 
a  straight  line  south,  beginning  at  the  frontier 
town  of  El  Paso,  stopping  at  Zacatecas,  Aguas 
Calientes,  Silao,  Guanajuato,  and  Queretaro, 
—  all  important  cities  on  the  line  of  the  Mexi- 
can Central  Railroad,  — and  ending  at  the  city 
of  Mexico,  some  twelve  hundred  miles  nearer 
the  equator. 

It  is  true  that  I  have  made  a  flying  trip  over 
the  Mexican  Railway,  passing  under  the  shadow 
of  snow-capped  Orizaba,  have  looked  down  into 
the  deep  gorges  of  the  Infiernillo,  reeking  with 
the  hot,  humid  air  of  the  tropics,  and  have  spent 
one  night  in  the  fever-haunted  city  of  Vera 
Cruz ;  but  my  experiences  were  confined  to 
such  as  could  be  enjoyed  from  the  rear  plat- 
form of  a  car,  to  a  six  by  nine  room  in  a  stuffy 
hotel,  and  to  a  glimpse  at  night  of  the  sea, 


121 


A  WHITE  UMBRELLA  IN  MEXICO 

impelled  by  a  norther,  rolling  in  from  the  Gulf 
and  sousing  the  quay  incumbered  with  surf 
boats.  Had  I  been  a  bird  belated  in  the  autumn, 
I  could  have  seen  more. 

This  bright  April  morning  I  have  shaken  the 
dust  of  the  great  city  from  my  feet,  and  have 
bent  my  steps  westward  towards  the  Pacific. 
In  common  parlance,  1  have  bought  a  first-class 
ticket  for  as  far  as  the  national  railroad  will  take 
me,  and  shall  come  bump  up  against  the  pre- 
sent terminus  at  Patzcuaro. 

On  my  way  west  I  shall  stop  at  Toluca,  an 
important  city  some  fifty  miles  down  the  road, 
tarry  a  while  at  Morelia,  the  most  delightful  of 
all  the  cities  of  western  Mexico,  and  come  to  a 
halt  at  Patzcuaro,  —  in  all  some  three  hundred 
miles  from  where  I  sit  in  the  station  and  look 
out  my  car  window.  I  am  particular  about  these 
distances. 

At  Patzcuaro  I  shall  find  a  lake  bearing  the 
same  name.  Up  this  lake,  nearly  to  the  end, 
an  Indian  adobe  village  ;  at  the  end  of  the  vil- 
lage a  tumbling-down  church  and  convent, 
within  this  convent  a  cloister,  leading  out  of  the 
cloister  a  narrow  passage  ending  in  a  low-ceiled 
room  with  its  one  window  protected  by  an  iron 
grating.  Through  this  fretwork  of  rusty  iron  the 
light  streams  in,  falling,  I  am  told,  upon  one  of 

122 


A  DAY  IN  TOLUCA 

the  priceless  treasures  of  the  world  —  an  En- 
tombment by  Titian. 

This,  if  you  please,  is  why  my  course  points 
due  west. 

The  scenery  along  the  line  of  the  road  from 
the  city  of  Mexico  to  where  the  divide  is 
crossed  at  la  Cima  —  some  ten  thousand  feet 
above  the  level  of  the  sea,  and  thence  down 
into  the  Toluca  Valley  —  was  so  inexpressibly 
grand  that  I  was  half  the  time  in  imminent  dan- 
ger of  decorating  a  telegraph  pole  with  my  head, 
in  my  eagerness  to  enjoy  it. 

Great  masonry  dams  hold  back  lakes  of  sil- 
ver shimmering  in  the  sunlight ;  deep  gorges  lie 
bottomless  in  purple  shadows ;  wide  stretches 
of  tableland  end  in  volcanoes,  ragged,  dead,  and 
creviced  with  snow  ;  and  sharp  craggy  peaks, 
tumbling  waterfalls,  and  dense  semi-tropical 
jungles  start  up  and  out  and  from  under  me  at 
every  curve. 

On  reaching  the  valley  of  Toluca,  the  road, 
as  it  nears  the  red-tiled  roofs  of  the  city,  follows 
the  windings  of  the  river  Lerma,  its  banks 
fringed  with  natives  bathing.  On  reaching  the 
city  itself  the  clean,  well-dressed  throng  at  the 
depot  explains  at  a  glance  the  value  of  this 
stream  apart  from  its  irrigating  properties. 
123 


A  WHITE  UMBRELLA  IN  MEXICO 

And  the  city  is  clean,  with  a  certain  well- 
planned,  well-built,  and  orderly  air  about  it, 
and  quite  a  modern  air  too.  Remembering  a 
fine  gray  dust  which  seems  to  be  a  part  of  the 
very  air  one  breathes,  and  the  great  stretches  of 
gardens  filled  with  trees,  and  the  long  drought 
continuing  for  months,  I  should  say  that  the 
prevailing  color  of  Toluca's  vegetation  is  a  light 
mullein-stalk  green.  Then  the  houses  are  a 
dusty  pink,  the  roofs  a  dusty  red,  and  the  streets 
and  sidewalks  a  dusty  yellow,  and  the  sky  al- 
ways and  ever,  from  morn  till  night,  a  dusty 
blue.  It  is  the  kind  of  place  Cazin,  the  great 
French  impressionist,  would  revel  in.  So  sub- 
tle and  exquisite  are  the  grays  and  their  harmo- 
nies that  one  false  note  from  your  palette  sets 
your  teeth  on  edge. 

But  Toluca  is  not  by  any  means  a  modern 
city,  despite  its  apparent  newness,  its  air  of 
prosperity,  and  its  generally  brushed-up  appear- 
ance. It  is  one  of  the  oldest  of  the  Spanish  set- 
tlements. No  less  a  personage  than  the  great 
Cortez  himself  received  its  site,  and  a  comfort- 
able slice  of  the  surrounding  country  thrown  in, 
as  a  present  from  his  king.  In  fact  it  is  but  a 
few  years,  not  twenty,  since  the  government 
pulled  down  the  very  house  once  occupied  by 
the  conqueror's  son,  Don  Martin  Cortez,  and 
124 


A  DAY  IN  TOLUCA 

built  upon  its  site  the  present  imposing  state 
buildings  fronting  the  plaza  major. 

This  pulling  down  and  rebuilding  process  is 
quite  fashionable  in  Toluca,  and  has  extended 
even  to  its  churches.  The  primitive  church  of 
San  Francisco  was  replaced  by  a  larger  structure 
of  stone  in  1585,  and  this  in  turn  by  an  impor- 
tant building  erected  in  the  seventeenth  century; 
and  yet  these  restless  people,  as  if  cramped  for 
room,  levelled  this  edifice  to  the  ground  in  1874 
and  started  upon  its  ruins  what  purposes  to  be 
a  magnificent  temple,  judging  from  the  acres  it 
covers.  In  fourteen  years  it  has  grown  twelve 
feet  high.  Some  time  during  the  latter  part  of 
the  next  century  they  will  be  slating  the  roof. 

Then  there  are  delightful  markets,  and  a  fine 
bull-ring,  and  in  the  suburbs  a  pretty  alameda 
full  of  matted  vines  and  overgrown  walks,  be- 
sides two  gorgeous  theatres.  Altogether  Toluca 
is  quite  worth  visiting,  even  if  it  does  not  look 
as  old  as  the  Pyramids  or  as  dilapidated  as  an 
Arab  town. 

In  all  this  newness  there  is  one  spot  which 
refreshes  you  like  a  breeze  from  afar.  It  is  the 
little  chapel  of  Nuestra  Sefiora  del  Carmen, 
laden  with  the  quaintness,  the  charm,  and  the 
dust  of  the  sixteenth  century.  It  has  appar- 
ently never  yet  occurred  to  any  Tolucan  to 
125 


A  WHITE  UMBRELLA  IN  MEXICO 

retouch  it,  and  my  only  fear  in  calling  attention 
to  it  now  is,  that  during  the  next  annual  spring 
cleaning  the  man  with  the  bucket  will  smother 
its  charm  in  whitewash. 

It  was  high  noon  when  I  sallied  out  from  my 
lodgings  to  look  for  this  forgotten  relic  of  the 
past.  I  had  spent  the  morning  with  that  ubi- 
quitous scapegrace  Moon,  whom  I  had  met  in 
Zacatecas  some  weeks  before  and  who  had  run 
up  to  Toluca  on  some  business  connected  with 
the  road.  He  nearly  shook  my  arm  off  when  he 
ran  against  me  in  the  market,  inquired  after  the 
chair,  vowed  I  should  not  wet  a  brush  until  I 
broke  bread  with  him,  and  would  have  carried 
me  off  bodily  to  breakfast  had  I  not  convinced 
him  that  no  man  could  eat  two  meals  half  an 
hour  apart.  He  was  delighted  that  I  could  find 
nothing,  as  he  expressed  it,  "  rickety  "  enough 
to  paint  in  Toluca,  and  then  relenting  led  me  up 
to  a  crack  in  a  crooked  street,  pointed  ahead  to 
the  chapel,  and  deserted  me  with  the  remark,  — 

"  Try  that.  It  is  as  musty  as  a  cheese  and 
about  a  million  years  old." 

I  passed  through  a  gate,  entered  the  sacred 
building,  and  wandered  out  into  a  patio,  or  sort 
of  cloister.  Instantly  the  world  and  its  hum  were 
gone.  It  was  a  small  cloister,  square,  paved 
with  marble  flags,  and  open  to  the  blue  sky 
126 


A  DAY  IN  TOLUCA 

above.  Beneath  the  arches,  against  the  wall, 
hung  a  few  paintings,  old  and  weather-stained. 
Opposite  from  where  I  stood  was  an  open  door. 
I  crossed  the  quadrangle  and  entered  a  cosily 
furnished  apartment.  The  ceiling  was  low  and 
heavily  beamed,  the  floor  laid  in  brick  tiles,  and 
the  walls  faced  with  shelves  loaded  with  books 
bound  in  vellum  with  titles  labelled  in  ink. 

Over  the  door  was  an  unframed  picture,  evi- 
dently a  Murillo,  and  against  the  opposite  wall 
hung  several  large  copies  of  Ribera.  In  one  cor- 
ner under  a  grated  window  rested  an  iron  bed- 
stead,—  but  recently  occupied,  —  and  near  it 
an  armchair  with  faded  velvet  cushions.  A 
low  table  covered  with  books  and  manuscripts, 
together  with  a  skull,  candle,  and  rosary,  a 
copper  basin  and  pitcher,  and  a  few  chairs, 
completed  the  interior  comforts.  Over  the  bed, 
within  arm's  reach,  hung  a  low  shelf,  upon 
which  stood  a  small  glass  cup  holding  a  with- 
ered rose.  The  cup  was  dry  and  the  flower 
faded  and  dust-covered. 

A  second  and  smaller  room  opened  out  to  the 
left.  I  pushed  aside  the  curtains  and  looked  in. 
It  was  unoccupied,  like  the  first.  As  I  turned 
hurriedly  to  leave  the  apartments  my  eye  fell 
upon  a  copy  of  A\edina's  works  bound  in  vel- 
lum, yellow  and  crinkled,  the  .backs  tied  by  a 
127 


A  WHITE  UMBRELLA  IN  MEXICO 

leathern  string.  I  leaned  forward  to  note  the 
date.  Suddenly  the  light  was  shut  out,  and 
from  the  obstructed  doorway  came  a  voice  quick 
and  sharp. 

"What  does  the  stranger  want  with  the 
padre's  books  ?"  I  looked  up  and  saw  a  man 
holding  a  bunch  of  keys.  The  situation  was 
unpleasant.  Without  changing  my  position,  I 
lifted  the  book  from  the  shelf  and  carefully  read 
the  title-page. 

"  Will  he  be  gone  long  ?  "  I  answered,  slowly 
replacing  the  volume. 

"  You  are  waiting,  then,  for  Fray  Geronimo  ? 
Many  pardons,  senor ;  1  am  the  sacristan.  I 
will  find  the  padre  and  bring  him  to  you." 

I  sank  into  the  armchair.  Retreat  now  was 
impossible.  This  will  do  for  the  sacristan,  I 
thought,  but  how  about  the  priest  ? 

In  a  moment  more  I  caught  the  sound  of 
quickening  footsteps  crossing  the  patio.  By  the 
side  of  the  sacristan  stood  a  bareheaded  young 
priest,  dressed  in  a  white  robe  which  reached 
to  his  feet.  He  had  deep-set  eyes,  which  were 
intensely  dark,  and  a  skin  of  ivory  whiteness. 
With  a  kindly  smile  upon  his  handsome,  intel- 
lectual face,  he  came  forward  and  said,  — 

"  Do  you  want  me  ?  " 

I  laid  my  course  in  an  instant. 
128 


A  DAY  IN  TOLUCA 

"Yes,  holy  father,"  1  replied,  rising,  "to 
crave  your  forgiveness.  I  am  an  American  and 
a  painter ;  see,  here  is  my  sketch-book.  I  en- 
tered your  open  door,  believing  it  would  lead 
me  to  the  street.  The  Murillo,  the  Riberas,  the 
wonderful  collection  of  old  books,  more  precious 
than  any  I  have  ever  seen  in  all  Mexico,  over- 
came me.  I  love  these  things,  and  could  not 
resist  the  temptation  of  tarrying  long  enough 
to  feast  my  eyes." 

"  Mi  amigo,  do  not  be  disturbed.  It  is  all 
right.  You  can  go,  Pedro, ' '  —  this  to  the  sacris- 
tan. "  I  love  them  too.  Let  us  look  them  over 
together." 

For  more  than  an  hour  we  examined  the 
contents  of  the  curious  library.  Almost  with- 
out an  exception  each  book  was  a  rare  volume. 
There  were  rows  of  ecclesiastical  works  in  Latin 
with  red-lettered  title-pages  printed  in  Antwerp; 
two  editions  of  Don  Quixote  with  copper  plates, 
published  in  Madrid  in  1760,  besides  a  varied 
collection  of  the  early  Mexican  writers,  including 
Alarcon,  the  dramatist,  and  Gongora,  the  poet- 
philosopher. 

Then  in  the  same  gracious  manner  he  mounted 

a  chair  and  took  from  the  wall  the  unframed 

Murillo,  "  A  Flight  into  Egypt,"  and  placed  it 

in  the  light,  saying  that  it  had  formerly  belonged 

129 


A  WHITE  UMBRELLA  IN  MEXICO 

to  an  ancestor  and  not  to  the  church,  and  that 
believing  it  to  be  the  genuine  work  of  the  great 
master,  he  had  brought  it  with  him  when  he 
came  to  Toluca,  the  face  of  the  Madonna  being 
especially  dear  to  him.  Next  he  unlocked  a 
closet  and  brought  me  an  ivory  crucifix  of  ex- 
quisite workmanship,  the  modelling  of  the  feet 
and  hands  recalling  the  best  work  of  the  Italian 
school.  He  did  not  return  this  to  the  closet, 
but  placed  it  upon  the  little  shelf  over  his  bed, 
close  to  the  dry  cup  which  held  the  withered 
rose.  In  the  act  the  flower  slipped  from  the 
glass.  Noticing  how  carefully  he  moved  the  cup 
aside,  and  how  tenderly  he  replaced  the  shriv- 
elled bud,  I  said  laughingly,  — 

"  You  not  only  love  old  books,  but  old  flow- 
ers as  well." 

He  looked  at  me  thoughtfully,  and  replied 
gravely,  — 

"  Some  flowers  are  never  old." 

In  the  glare  of  the  sunlight  of  the  street  I 
met  Moon.  He  had  been  searching  for  me  for 
an  hour. 

"  Did  you  find  that  hole  in  the  wall  ?  "  he 
called  out.  "  Come  over  here  where  the  wind 
can  blow  through  you.  You  must  feel  like  a 
grave-digger.  Where  is  your  sketch  ?  " 

1  had  no  sketch  and  told  him  so.  The  inte- 
130 


A  DAY  IN  TOLUCA 

rior  was  in  truth  delightfully  picturesque,  but 
the  young  priest  was  so  charming  that  I  had 
not  even  opened  my  trap. 

"  What  sort  of  a  looking  priest  ?  " 

I  described  him  as  closely  as  I  could. 

"It  sounds  like  Geronimo.  Yes  —  same 
priest." 

"Well  —  ?" 

"  Oh  !  the  old  story,  and  a  sad  one.  Gray 
dawn  —  muffled  figures  —  obliging  duenna  — 
diligence  —  governor  on  horseback  —  girl  locked 
up  in  a  hacienda  —  student  forced  into  the 
Church.  Queer  things  happen  in  Mexico,  my 
boy,  and  cruel  ones  too." 


131 


X 

TO  MORELIA  WITH   MOON 

MOON  insists  on  going  to  Morelia  with 
me.  He  has  a  number  of  reasons  for 
this  sudden  resolve  :  that  the  senoritas  are  es- 
pecially charming  and  it  is  dangerous  for  me  to 
go  alone ;  that  he  knows  the  sacristan  major 
of  the  cathedral  and  can  buy  for  me  for  a  song 
the  entire  movable  property  of  the  church  ;  that 
there  is  a  lovely  alameda  overgrown  with  wild 
roses,  and  that  it  is  so  tangled  up  and  crooked 
I  will  lose  the  best  part  of  it  if  he  does  not  pilot 
me  about ;  and  finally,  when  I  demur,  that  he 
has  received  a  despatch  from  his  chief  to  meet 
him  in  Morelia  on  the  morrow,  and  he  must  go 
anyhow. 

He  appears  the  next  morning  in  a  brown 
linen  suit,  with  the  same  old  sombrero  slanted 
over  one  eye,  and  the  loose  end  of  his  necktie 
tossed  over  his  shoulder.  On  the  way  to  the 
station  he  holds  a  dozen  interviews  with  citi- 
zens occupying  balconies  along  the  route.  He 
132 


TO  MORELIA  WITH  MOON 

generally  conducts  these  from  the  middle  of  the 
street,  pitching  his  voice  to  suit  the  elevation. 
Then  he  deflects  to  the  sidewalk,  runs  his  head 
into  the  door  of  a  posada,  wakes  up  the  inmates 
with  a  volley  of  salutations,  bobs  out  again, 
hails  by  name  the  driver  of  a  tram,  and  when 
he  comes  to  a  standstill  calls  out  that  he  has 
changed  his  mind  and  will  walk,  and  so  arrives 
at  the  station  bubbling  over  with  good  humor, 
and  as  restless  as  a  schoolboy. 

I  cannot  help  liking  this  breezy  fellow,  despite 
his  piratical  air,  his  avowed  contempt  for  all  the 
laws  that  govern  well-regulated  society,  and  his 
professed  unbelief  in  the  sincerity  of  everybody's 
motives. 

His  acquaintance  is  marvellous.  He  knows 
everybody,  from  the  water-carrier  to  the  arch- 
bishop. He  speaks  not  only  Spanish,  but  half  a 
dozen  native  dialects  picked  up  from  the  Indians 
while  he  was  constructing  the  railroad.  He  has 
lived  in  every  town  and  village  on  the  line ; 
knows  Morelia,  Patzcuaro,  Tzintzuntzan,  and 
the  lake  as  thoroughly  as  he  does  his  own  abid- 
ing -  place  at  Zacatecas ;  is  perfectly  familiar 
with  all  the  mountain  trails  and  short  cuts  across 
plains  and  foothills ;  is  a  born  tramp,  the  best 
of  Bohemians,  and  the  most  entertaining  trav- 
elling companion  possible. 
133 


A  WHITE  UMBRELLA  IN  MEXICO 

His  baggage  is  exceedingly  limited.  It  con- 
sists of  a  tooth-brush,  two  collars,  and  a  bundle 
of  cigars.  He  replies  to  my  remarks  on  its  com- 
pactness, that  "  anybody's  shirts  fit  him,  and 
that  he  has  plenty  of  friends  up  the  road." 
And  yet  with  all  this  there  is  something  about 
the  fearless  way  in  which  he  looks  you  straight 
in  the  eye,  and  something  about  the  firm  lines 
around  his  mouth,  that,  in  spite  of  his  devil- 
may-care  recklessness,  convinces  you  of  his 
courage  and  sincerity. 

"  Crawl  over  here,"  he  breaks  out  from  the 
end  of  the  car,  "  and  see  this  hacienda.  Every 
square  acre  you  see,  including  that  range  of 
mountains,  belongs  to  one  Mexican.  It  covers 
exactly  one  hundred  and  twenty  square  miles. 
The  famished  pauper  who  owns  it  has  taken 
five  millions  of  dollars  from  it  during  the  last 
fifteen  years.  For  the  next  eighteen  miles  you 
will  ride  through  his  land." 

"  Does  he  live  here  ?  "  I  inquired. 

"  No,  he  knows  better.  He  lives  in  Paris  like 
a  lord,  and  spends  every  cent  of  it." 

We  were  entering  the  lake  country,  and 
caught  glimpses  of  Cuitzo  shimmering  through 
the  hills. 

"  These  shores  are  alive  with  wild  fowl," 
continued  Moon  ;  "  there  goes  a  flight  of  stork, 

134 


TO  MORELIA  WITH  MOON 

now.  You  can  bag  a  pelican  and  half  a  dozen 
flamingoes  any  morning  along  here  before  break- 
fast. But  you  should  see  the  Indians  hunt. 
They  never  use  a  gun  when  they  go  ducking. 
They  tie  a  sharp  knife  to  a  long  pole  and  spear 
the  birds  as  they  fly  over.  When  they  fish 
they  strew  green  boughs  along  the  water's 
edge,  and  when  the  fish  seek  the  shade,  scoop 
them  up  with  a  dip-net  made  from  the  fibre  of 
the  pulque  plant.  This  country  has  changed 
but  little  since  that  old  pirate  Cortez  took  pos- 
session of  it,  as  far  as  the  Indians  go.  Many  of 
them  cannot  understand  a  word  of  Spanish  now, 
and  I  had  to  pick  up  their  jargon  myself,  when 
I  was  here." 

"  Hello,  Goggles  ! "  he  shouted  out,  suddenly 
jumping  from  his  seat  as  the  train  stopped.  I 
looked  out  and  saw  a  poor  blind  beggar,  guided 
by  a  boy  with  a  stick. 

"  I  thought  you  were  dead  long  ago." 
In  a  moment  more  he  was  out  of  the  train  and 
had  the  old  man  by  the  hand.  When  he  turned 
away,  I  could  see  by  the  way  the  blind  face 
lighted  up  that  he  had  made  him  the  richer  in 
some  way.  The  boy  too  seemed  overjoyed,  and 
would  have  left  his  helpless  charge  in  the  push- 
ing crowd  but  for  Moon,  who  snatched  away  the 
leading  stick,  and  placed  it  in  the  beggar's  hand 

135 


A  WHITE  UMBRELLA  IN  MEXICO 

again.  Then  he  fell  to  berating  the  boy  for  his 
carelessness,  without,  however,  diminishing  in 
the  least  the  latter's  good  humor,  raising  his 
voice  until  the  car  windows  were  filled  with 
heads. 

All  this  in  a  dialect  that  was  wholly  unintel- 
ligible. 

"  You  know  the  beggar,"  I  remarked. 

"Of  course;  old  Tizapan.  Lost  his  eyes 
digging  in  a  silver  mine.  That  little  devil  is  his 
grandson.  If  I  had  my  way  I  would  dig  a  hole 
and  fill  it  up  with  these  cripples." 

When  we  reached  Morelia  it  was  quite  dark, 
and  yet  it  was  difficult  to  get  Moon  out  of  the 
station,  so  many  people  had  a  word  to  say  to 
him.  When  we  arrived  at  the  hotel  fronting  the 
plaza  he  was  equally  welcome,  everybody  greet- 
ing him. 

It  was  especially  delightful  to  see  the  land- 
lord. He  first  fell  upon  his  neck  and  embraced 
him,  then  stood  off  at  a  distance  and  admired 
him,  with  his  arms  akimbo,  drinking  in  every 
word  of  Moon's  raillery.  At  the  bare  mention 
of  dinner,  he  rushed  off  and  brought  in  the  cook, 
whom  Moon  addressed  instantly  as  Griddles, 
running  from  Spanish  into  English  and  French, 
and  back  again  into  Spanish,  in  the  most  sur- 
prising way. 

136 


TO  MORELIA  WITH  MOON 

"We  will  have  a  Mexican  dinner  for  the 
painter,  Griddles  !  No  bon  boucbe,  but  a  square 
meal,  un  buena  comida!  magnificat  especially 
some  little  fish  baked  in  corn-husks,  peppers 
stuffed  with  tomatoes  with  plenty  of  chile,  an 
onion  salad  with  garlic,  stewed  figs,  and  a  cup 
of  Uruapam  coffee,  —  the  finest  in  the  world," 
—  this  last  to  me. 

Later  all  these  were'  duly  served  and  deli- 
ciously  cooked,  and  opened  my  eyes  to  the  re- 
sources of  a  Mexican  kitchen  when  ordered  by 
an  expert. 

In  the  morning  Moon  started  for  his  friend  the 
sacristan.  He  found  him  up  a  long  flight  of  stone 
steps  in  one  end  of  the  cathedral.  But  he  was 
helpless,  even  for  Moon.  We  must  find  Padre 
Bailo,  who  lived  near  the  Zocolo.  He  had  the 
keys  and  charge  of  all  the  worn-out  church  pro- 
perty. Another  long  search  across  plazas  and  in 
and  out  of  market  stalls,  and  Padre  Bailo  was 
encountered  leaving  his  house  on  his  way  back 
to  the  cathedral.  But  it  was  impossible.  Manana 
por  la  manana,  or  perhaps  next  week,  but  not 
to-day.  Moon  took  the  dried-up  old  fossil  aside, 
and  brought  him  back  in  five  minutes  smiling 
all  over,  with  a  promise  to  unlock  everything  on 
my  return  from  Patzcuaro. 

"  Now  for  thealameda.  It  is  the  most  delight- 

137 


A  WHITE  UMBRELLA  IN  MEXICO 

ful  old  tangle  in  Mexico  :  rose-trees  as  high  as 
a  house ;  by-paths  overgrown  with  vines  and 
lost  in  beds  of  violets  ;  stone  benches  galore  ; 
through  the  centre  an  aqueduct  so  light  it 
might  be  built  of  looped  ribbons;  and  such 
senoritas  !  I  met  a  girl  under  one  of  those  arches 
who  would  have  taken  your  breath  away.  She 
had  a  pair  of  eyes,  and  a  foot,  and  "  — 

"  Never  mind  what  the  girl  had,  Moon.  We 
may  find  her  yet  on  one  of  the  benches  and  I 
will  judge  for  myself.  Show  me  the  alameda." 

"  Come  on,  then." 

At  the  end  of  a  beautiful  street  nearly  half  a 
mile  long,  —  in  reality  a  raised  stone  causeway 
with  stone  parapets  and  stone  benches  on  either 
side,  and  shaded  its  entire  length  by  a  double 
row  of  magnificent  elms,  —  I  found  the  aban- 
doned Paseo  de  las  Lechugas  (the  street  of  the 
Lettuces). 

Moon  had  not  exaggerated  the  charm  of  its 
surroundings.  Acacias  and  elms  interlaced  their 
branches  across  the  walks,  roses  ran  riot  over 
the  stone  benches,  twisted  their  stems  in  and 
out  of  the  railings,  and  tossed  their  blossoms 
away  up  in  the  branches  of  the  great  trees. 
High  up  against  the  blue,  the  graceful  aque- 
duct stepped  along  on  its  slender  legs,  tramp- 
ling the  high  grass,  and  through  and  into  and 
138 


TO  MORELIA  WITH  MOON 

over  all,  the  afternoon  sun  poured  its  flood  of 
gold. 

The  very  unkempt,  deserted  air  of  the  place 
added  to  its  beauty.  It  looked  as  if  the  forces 
of  nature,  no  longer  checked,  had  held  high 
revel,  and  in  their  glee  had  well-nigh  effaced 
all  trace  of  closely  cropped  hedge,  rectangular 
flower-bed,  and  fantastic  shrub.  The  very  pop- 
pies had  wandered  from  their  beds  and  stared 
at  me  from  the  roadside  with  brazen  faces,  and 
the  once  dignified  tiger  lilies  had  turned  tramps 
and  sat  astride  of  the  crumbling  curbs,  nodding 
gayly  at  me  as  I  passed. 

"Did  I  not  tell  you  ?  "  broke  out  Moon. 
"How  would  you  like  to  be  lost  in  a  tangle 
like  this  for  a  month  with  a  Fatinitza  all  eyes 
and  perfume,  with  little  Hottentots  to  serve  you 
ices,  and  fan  you  with  peacock  tails  ?" 

I  admitted  my  inability  to  offer  any  valid 
objection  to  any  such  delicious  experience,  and 
intimated  that,  but  for  one  obstacle,  he  could 
bring  on  his  Hottentots  and  trimmings  at  once 
—  I  was  en  route  for  Patzcuaro,  Tzintzuntzan, 
and  the  Titian. 

This  was  news  to  Moon.  He  had  expected 
Patzcuaro,  that  being  the  terminus  of  the  great- 
est railroad  of  the  continent,  —  P.  Moon,  civil 
engineer,  —  but  why  any  sane  man  wanted  to 
139 


A  WHITE  UMBRELLA  IN  MEXICO 

wander  around  looking  for  a  dirty  adobe  Indian 
village  like  Tzintzuntzan,  away  up  a  lake,  with 
nothing  but  a  dug-out  to  paddle  there  in,  and 
not  a  place  to  put  your  head  in  after  you  landed, 
was  a  mystery  to  him.  Besides,  who  said  there 
was  any  Titian  ?  At  all  events,  I  might  stay  in 
Morelia  until  I  could  find  my  way  around  alone. 
The  Titian  had  already  hung  there  three  hun- 
dred years  ;  he  thought  it  would  hold  out  for  a 
day  or  two  longer. 

So  we  continued  rambling  about  this  most 
delightful  of  all  the  Mexican  cities ;  across  the 
plaza  of  La  Paz  at  night ;  sitting  under  the  trees 
listening  to  the  music,  and  watching  the  love- 
making  on  the  benches  ;  in  the  cathedral  at 
early  mass,  stopping  for  fruit  and  a  cup  of  coffee 
at  the  market  on  the  way ;  through  the  college  of 
San  Nicholas,  where  Fray  Geronimo  had  studied ; 
to  the  governor's  house  to  listen  to  a  concert 
and  to  present  ourselves  to  his  excellency,  who 
had  sent  for  us ;  to  the  great  pawn-shop,  the 
Monte  de  Piedad,  on  the  regular  day  of  sale, 
and  to  the  thousand  and  one  delights  of  this 
dolcefar  niente  city,  —  returning  always  at  sun- 
down to  the  inn,  to  be  welcomed  by  the  land- 
lord, who  shouted  for  Griddles  the  moment  he 
laid  eyes  on  Moon,  and  began  spreading  the  cloth 
on  the  little  table  under  the  fig-tree  in  the  garden. 
140 


TO  MORELIA  WITH  MOON 

After  this  Bohemian  existence  had  lasted  for 
several  days  I  suddenly  remembered  that  Moon 
had  not  been  out  of  my  sight  five  waking  min- 
utes, and  being  anxious  for  his  welfare,  I  ven- 
tured to  jog  his  memory. 

"Moon,  did  you  not  tell  me  that  you  came 
here  on  orders  from  your  chief,  who  wanted  you 
on  urgent  business  and  was  waiting  for  you  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Have  you  seen  him  ?  " 

"No." 

"  Heard  from  him  ?  " 

"No." 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  about  it  ?  " 

"  Let  him  wait." 


141 


XI 

PATZCUARO  AND  THE  LAKE 

WHEN  I  rapped  at  Moon's  door  the  next 
morning  he  refused  to  open  it.  He 
apologized  for  this  refusal  by  roaring  through  the 
transom  that  the  thought  of  my  leaving  him 
alone  in  Morelia  had  caused  him  a  sleepless 
night,  and  that  he  had  determined  never  to 
look  upon  my  face  again  ;  that  he  had  "  never 
loved  a  dear  gazelle,"  etc.,  — this  last  sung  in 
a  high  key  ;  that  he  was  not  coming  out ;  and 
that  I  might  go  to  Pdtzcuaro  and  be  hanged  to 
me. 

So  the  landlord  and  Griddles  escorted  me  to 
the  station,  the  chef  carry  ing  my  traps,  and  the 
landlord  a  mysterious  basket  with  a  suggestive 
bulge  in  one  corner  of  the  paper  covering.  As 
the  train  moved  slowly  out,  this  basket  was 
passed  through  the  window  with  a  remark  that 
Mr.  Moon  had  prepared  it  the  night  before,  with 
especial  instructions  not  to  deliver  it  until  1  was 
under  way.  On  removing  the  covering  the  bulge 
142 


PATZCUARO  AND  THE  LAKE 

proved  to  be  glass,  with  a  tinfoil  covering  the 
cork,  on  top  of  which  was  a  card  bearing  the 
superscription  of  my  friend,  with  a  line  stating 
that  "charity  of  the  commonest  kind  had  in- 
fluenced him  in  this  attempt  to  keep  me  from 
starving  during  my  idiotic  search  for  the  Titian, 
that  the  dulces  beneath  were  the  pride  of  More- 
lia,  the  fruit  quite  fresh,  and  the  substratum  of 
sandwiches  the  best  Griddles  could  make." 

I  thanked  the  cheery  fellow  in  my  heart, 
forgave  him  his  eccentricities,  and  wondered 
whether  I  should  ever  see  his  like  again. 

An  hour  later  I  had  finished  the  customary 
inventory  of  the  car:  the  padre,  very  moist  and 
very  dusty,  as  if  he  had  reached  the  station  from 
afar,  mule-back  ;  the  young  Hidalgo  with  buck- 
skin jacket,  red  sash,  open-slashed  buckskin 
breeches  with  silver  buttons  of  bulls'  heads 
down  the  seam,  wide  sombrero,  and  the  ivory 
handle  of  a  revolver  protruding  from  his  hip 
pocket ;  the  two  demure  senoritas  dressed  in 
black  with  veils  covering  their  heads  and  shoul- 
ders, attended  by  the  stout  duenna  on  the  ad- 
joining seat,  with  fat,  pudgy  hands,  hoop  ear- 
rings, and  restless  eyes  ;  the  old  Mexican,  thin, 
yellow,  and  dried  up,  with  a  cigarette  glued  to 
his  lower  lip. 

1  had  looked  them  all  over  carefully,  specu- 


A  WHITE  UMBRELLA  IN  MEXICO 

lating  as  one  does  over  their  several  occupations 
and  antecedents,  and  feeling  the  loss  of  my  en- 
cyclopaedic friend  in  unravelling  their  several 
conditions,  when  the  door  of  the  car  immedi- 
ately in  front  of  me  opened,  and  that  ubiqui- 
tous individual  himself  slowly  sauntered  in,  his 
cravat  flying,  and  his  big  sombrero  flattened 
against  the  back  of  his  head.  The  only  change 
in  his  costume  had  been  the  replacing  of  his 
brown  linen  suit  with  one  of  a  fine  blue  check, 
newly  washed  and  ironed  in  streaks.  From  his 
vest  pocket  protruded  his  customary  baggage,  — 
the  ivory  handle  and  the  points  of  two  cigars. 

"Why,  Moon  !  "  I  blurted  out,  completely 
surprised.  "  Where  did  you  come  from  ?  " 

"Baggage  car  —  had  a  nap.  Got  the  bas- 
ket, I  see." 

"  I  left  you  in  bed,"  I  continued. 

"  You  did  n't.  Was  shivering  on  the  outside, 
waiting  for  the  landlord's  clothes.  How  do  they 
fit  ?  Left  mine  to  be  washed." 

"  Where  are  you  going  ?  "  I  insisted,  deter- 
mined not  to  be  side-tracked. 

"  To  Patzcuaro."  Then  with  a  merry  twinkle 
in  his  eye  he  leaned  forward,  canted  his  som- 
brero over  his  left  eye,  and  shading  his  mouth 
with  its  brim  whispered  confidentially,  "You 
see,  I  got  a  dispatch  from  my  chief  to  meet  him 
144 


PATZCUARO  AND  THE  LAKE 

in  Patzcuaro,  and  I  managed  by  hurrying  a  lit- 
tle to  catch  this  train." 

Patzcuaro  lies  on  a  high  hill  overlooking  the 
lake.  The  beautiful  sheet  of  water  at  its  foot, 
some  twenty  miles  long  and  ten  wide,  is  sur- 
rounded by  forest-clad  hills  and  studded  with 
islands,  and  peopled  almost  exclusively  by  In- 
dians, who  support  themselves  by  fishing. 

The  town  is  built  upon  hilly  broken  ground, 
the  streets  are  narrow  and  crooked,  and  thor- 
oughly Moorish  in  their  character,  and  the  gen- 
eral effect  picturesque  in  the  extreme. 

On  alighting  from  the  train  it  was  evident 
that  the  progressiveness  of  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury ended  at  the  station.  Drawn  up  in  the 
road  stood  a  lumbering  stage-coach  and  five 
horses.  It  was  as  large  as  a  country  barn,  and 
had  enormous  wheels  bound  with  iron  and  as 
heavy  as  an  artillery  wagon's.  In  front  there 
hung  a  boot  made  of  leather  an  inch  thick, 
with  a  multitude  of  straps  and  buckles.  Behind, 
a  similar  boot,  with  more  straps  and  buckles. 
On  top  was  fastened  an  iron  railing,  protecting 
an  immense  load  of  miscellaneous  freight.  There 
was  also  a  flight  of  steps  that  let  down  in  sec- 
tions, with  a  hand-rail  to  assist  the  passenger. 
Within  and  without,  on  cushions,  sides,  cur- 
tains, over  top,  baggage,  wheels,  driver,  horses, 

J45 


A  WHITE  UMBRELLA  IN  MEXICO 

and  harness  the  gray  dust  lay  in  layers,  —  not 
sifted  over  it,  but  piled  up  in  heaps. 

The  closest  scrutiny  on  my  companion's  part 
failed  to  reveal  the  existence  of  anything  resem- 
bling a  spring,  made  either  of  leather,  rawhide, 
or  steel.  This  last  was  a  disappointment  to 
Moon,  who  said  that  occasionally  some  coaches 
were  built  that  way. 

But  two  passengers  entered  it,  —  Moon  and  I ; 
the  others,  not  being  strangers,  walked.  The  dis- 
tance to  the  town  from  the  station  is  some  two 
miles,  up  hill.  It  was  not  until  my  trap  rose 
from  the  floor,  took  a  flying  leap  across  the 
middle  of  the  seat,  and  landed  edgewise  below 
Moon's  breastbone,  that  I  began  fully  to  realize 
how  badly  the  authorities  had  neglected  the 
highway.  Moon  coincided,  remarking  that  they 
had  evidently  blasted  it  out  in  the  rough,  but 
the  pieces  had  not  been  gathered  up. 

We  arrived  first,  entering  the  arcade  of  the 
Fonda  Concordia  afoot,  the  coach  lumbering 
along  later  minus  half  its  top  freight. 

A  cup  of  coffee,  —  none  better  than  this  na- 
tive coffee,  —  an  omelet  with  peppers  and  some 
fruit,  and  Moon  started  out  to  make  arrange- 
ments for  my  trip  up  the  lake  to  Tzintzuntzan 
and  the  Titian,  and  I  with  my  sketch-book  to 
see  the  town. 

146 


PATZCUARO  AND  THE  LAKE 

A  closer  view  was  not  disappointing. 

Patzcuaro  is  more  Moorish  than  any  city  in 
Mexico.  The  houses  have  overhanging  eaves 
supported  by  roof  rafters  similar  to  those  seen 
in  southern  Spain.  The  verandas  are  shaded  by 
awnings  and  choked  up  with  flowers.  The  ar- 
cades are  flanked  by  slender  Moorish  columns, 
the  streets  are  crossed  by  swinging  lanterns 
stretched  from  house  to  house  by  iron  chains, 
the  windows  and  doorways  are  surmounted 
by  the  horseshoe  arch  of  the  Alhambra,  and 
the  whole  place  inside  and  out  reminds  you  of 
Toledo  transplanted.  Although  seven  thousand 
feet  above  the  level  of  the  sea,  it  is  so  near  the 
edge  of  the  slope  running  down  into  the  hot 
country  that  its  market  is  filled  with  tropical 
fruits  unknown  on  the  plateau  of  Mexico  farther 
east,  and  the  streets  thronged  with  natives 
dressed  in  costumes  never  met  with  in  high 
latitudes. 

Tradition  has  it  that  in  the  days  of  the  good 
Bishop  Quiroga,  when  the  See  of  Michoacan 
was  removed  hither  from  Tzintzuntzan,  Patz- 
cuaro gave  promise  of  being  an  important  city, 
as  is  proved  by  the  unfinished  cathedral.  When, 
however,  the  See  was  again  removed  to  Morelia 
the  town  rapidly  declined,  until  to-day  it  is  the 
least  important  of  the  old  cities  of  Michoacan. 

147 


A  WHITE  UMBRELLA  IN  MEXICO 

The  plaza  is  trodden  down  and  surrounded  by 
market  stalls,  the  churches  are  either  abandoned 
or,  what  is  worse,  renovated,  and  there  is  no- 
thing left  of  interest  to  the  idler  and  antiquary, 
outside  of  the  charm  of  its  picturesque  streets 
and  location,  except,  it  may  be,  the  tomb  of  the 
great  bishop  himself,  who  lies  buried  under  the 
altar  of  the  Jesuit  church,  the  Campania,  — 
his  bones  wrapped  in  silk. 

I  made  some  memoranda  in  my  sketch- 
book, bought  some  coffee,  lacquer  ware,  and 
feather  work,  and  returned  to  the  inn  to  look  for 
Moon.  He  was  sitting  under  the  arcade,  his  feet 
against  the  column  and  his  chair  tilted  back, 
smoking.  He  began  as  soon  as  I  came  within 
range  :  — 

"  Yes,  know  all  about  it.  You  can  go  there 
three  ways :  over  the  back  of  a  donkey,  aboard 
an  Indian  canoe,  or  swim." 

"How  far  is  it?  " 

"  Fifteen  miles." 

The  Titian  looked  smaller  and  less  important 
than  at  any  time  since  my  leaving  the  city  of 
Mexico. 

"  What  do  you  suggest  ?  " 

"  1  am  not  suggesting ;  I'm  a  passenger." 

"  You  going  ?  " 

"  Of  course.  Think  I  would  leave  you  here 
148 


PATZCUARO  AND  THE  LAKE 

to  be  murdered  by  these  devils  for  your  watch 
key  ?  " 

The  picture  loomed  up  once  more. 

"  Then  we  will  take  the  canoe." 

"  Next  week  you  will,  not  now.  Listen. 
Yesterday  was  market  day  ;  market  day  comes 
but  once  a  week.  There  are  no  canoes  on  the 
beach  below  us  from  as  far  up  the  lake  as  Tzin- 
tzuntzan,  and  the  fishermen  from  Zanicho  and 
towns  nearer  by  refuse  to  paddle  so  far." 

He  threw  away  his  cigar,  elongated  himself 
a  foot  or  more,  broke  out  into  a  laugh  at  my 
discomfiture,  slipped  his  arm  through  mine,  and 
remarked  apologetically  "that  he  had  sent  for 
a  man  and  had  an  idea." 

In  half  an  hour  the  man  arrived,  and  with 
him  the  information  that  some  employees  of  the 
road  had  recently  constructed  from  two  Indian 
dug-out  canoes  a  sort  of  catamaran  ;  that  a  deck 
had  been  floored  between,  a  mast  stepped,  and 
a  sail  rigged  thereon.  The  craft  awaited  our 
pleasure. 

Moon's  idea  ooze.d  out  in  driblets.  Fully  de- 
veloped, it  recommended  the  immediate  stock- 
ing of  the  ship  with  provisions,  the  hiring  of  six 
Indians  with  sweep  oars,  and  a  start  bright  and 
early  on  the  morrow  for  Tzintzuntzan ;  Moon 
to  be  commodore  and  hold  the  tiller ;  I  to  have 
149 


A  WHITE  UMBRELLA  IN  MEXICO 

the  captain's  stateroom,  with  free  use  of  the 
deck. 

The  morning  dawned  deliciously  cool  and 
bright.  Moon  followed  half  an  hour  later,  em- 
bodying all  the  characteristics  of  the  morning 
and  supplementing  a  few  of  his  own,  —  another 
suit  of  clothes,  a  cloth  cap,  and  an  enormous 
spyglass. 

The  clothes  were  the  result  of  a  further  ex- 
change of  courtesies  with  a  brother  engineer, 
the  cap  replaced  his  time-worn  broad  sombrero, 
"  out  of  courtesy  to  the  sail,"  he  said,  and  the 
spyglass  would  be  useful  either  as  a  club  of 
defence,  or  to  pole  over  shoal  places,  or  in  ex- 
amining the  details  of  the  Titian.  "  The  thing 
might  be  hung  high,  and  he  wanted  to  see  it." 

These  explanations,  however,  were  cut  short 
by  the  final  preparations  for  the  start,  —  Moon 
giving  orders  in  true  nautical  style,  making  fast 
the  rudder,  calling  all  hands  aft  to  stow  the  va- 
rious baskets  and  hampers,  battening  down  the 
trapdoor  hatches,  and  getting  everything  snug 
and  trim  for  a  voyage  of  discovery  as  absurd  to 
him  as  if  entered  upon  for  the  finding  of  the  Holy 
Grail. 

Finally  all  was  ready,  Moon  seized  the  tiller, 
and  gave  the  order  to  cast  off.  A  faint  cheer 
went  up  from  the  group  of  natives  on  the  shore, 

I5Q 


PATZCUARO  AND  THE  LAKE 

the  wind  gave  a  kindly  puff,  the  six  Indians, 
stripped  to  their  waists,  bent  to  their  oars,  and 
the  catamaran  drifted  clear  of  the  gravel  beach, 
and  bore  away  up  the  lake  to  Tzintzuntzan. 

She  was  certainly  as  queer  a  looking  craft 
as  ever  trailed  a  rudder.  To  be  exact,  she  was 
about  thirty  feet  long,  half  as  wide,  and  drew 
a  hand's-breadth  of  water.  Her  bow  flooring 
was  slightly  trimmed  to  a  point ;  her  square 
stern  was  protected  by  a  bench  a  foot  wide  and 
high,  —  forming  a  sort  of  open  locker  under 
which  a  man  could  crawl  and  escape  the  sun ; 
her  deck  was  flat,  and  broken  only  by  the  mast, 
which  was  well  forward,  and  the  rests  or  giant 
oarlocks  which  held  the  sweeps.  The  rudder 
was  a  curiosity.  It  was  half  as  long  as  the 
boat,  and  hung  over  the  stern  like  the  pole  of  an 
old-fashioned  well-sweep.  When  fulfilling  its 
destiny  it  had  as  free  charge  of  the  deck  as 
the  boom  of  a  fishing  smack  in  a  gale  of  wind. 
Another  peculiarity  of  the  rudder  was  its  inde- 
pendent action.  It  not  only  had  ideas  of  its  own 
but  followed  them.  The  skipper  followed  too, 
after  a  brief  struggle,  and  walked  miles  across 
the  deck  in  humoring  its  whims.  The  sail  was 
unique.  It  was  made  of  a  tarpaulin  which  had 
seen  better  days  as  the  fly  of  a  camping  tent, 
and  was  nailed  flat  to  the  short  boom  which 


A  WHITE  UMBRELLA  IN  MEXICO 

wandered  up  and  down  the  mast  at  will,  as- 
sisted by  half  a  dozen  barrel  hoops  and  the  iron 
tire  of  a  wheelbarrow.  Two  trapdoors,  cut  mid- 
way the  deck,  led  into  the  bowels  of  the  dug- 
outs, and  proved  useful  in  bailing  out  leakage 
and  overwash. 

As  I  was  only  cabin  passenger,  and  so  with- 
out responsibility,  I  stretched  my  length  along 
the  bench  and  watched  Moon  handle  the  ship. 
At  first  all  went  smoothly,  the  commodore 
grasped  the  tiller  as  cordially  as  if  it  had  been 
the  hand  of  his  dearest  friend,  and  the  wilful 
rudder,  lulled  to  sleep  by  the  outburst,  swayed 
obediently  back  and  forth.  The  tarpaulin, 
meanwhile,  bursting  with  the  pride  of  its  pro- 
motion, bent  to  the  breeze  in  an  honest  effort 
to  do  its  share.  Suddenly  the  wind  changed ; 
the  inflated  sail  lost  its  head  and  clung  wildly 
to  the  mast,  the  catamaran  careened,  Moon 
gave  a  vicious  jerk,  and  the  rudder  awoke. 
Then  followed  a  series  of  misunderstandings 
between  the  commodore  and  the  thoroughly 
aroused  well-sweep  which  enlivened  all  the 
dull  passages  of  the  voyage,  and  introduced 
into  the  general  conversation  every  variety  of 
imprecation  known  to  me  in  languages  with 
which  I  am  familiar,  assisted  and  enlarged  by 
several  dialects  understood  and  appreciated  only 
152 


PATZCUARO  AND  THE  LAKE 

by  the  six  silent,  patient  men  keeping  up  their 
rhythmic  movement  at  the  sweeps. 

When  we  reached  the  first  headland  on  our 
weather  bow  the  wind  freshened  to  a  stiff  breeze, 
and  after  a  brief  struggle  Moon  decided  to  go 
about.  I  saw  at  a  glance  that  the  catamaran 
held  different  views,  and  that  it  was  encour- 
aged and  "  egged  "  on,  so  to  speak,  by  its  co- 
conspirator  the  rudder. 

"  You  men  on  the  right,  stop  rowing." 

This  order  was  emphasized  by  an  empty  bot- 
tle thrown  from  the  locker.  The  three  Indians 
stood  motionless. 

"  Haul  that  boom,"  —  this  to  me,  sketching 
with  my  feet  over  the  stern. 

I  obeyed  with  the  agility  of  a  man-o'-war's 
man.  The  sail  flapped  wildly,  the  rudder  gave 
a  staggering  lurch,  and  Moon  measured  his 
length  on  the  deck  ! 

By  the  time  the  commodore  had  regained  his 
feet  he  had  exhausted  his  vocabulary.  Then 
with  teeth  hard  set  he  lashed  the  rebellious 
rudder  fast  to  the  locker,  furled  the  crestfallen 
sail,  and  resigned  the  boat  to  the  native  crew. 
Five  minutes  later  he  was  stretched  flat  on 
the  deck,  bubbling  over  with  good  humor,  and 
gloating  over  the  contents  of  the  hampers  piled 
up  around  him. 

153 


A  WHITE  UMBRELLA  IN  MEXICO 

"  That  town  over  your  shoulder  on  the  right 
is  Zanicho,"  he  rattled  on,  pointing  with  his 
fork  to  some  adobe  huts  clustered  around  a 
quaint  church  spire. 

"  If  we  had  time  and  a  fair  wind,  I  should  like 
to  show  you  the  interior.  It  is  exactly  as  the 
Jesuits  left  it  three  hundred  years  ago.  Away 
over  there  on  the  right  is  Xaracuaro.  You  can 
see  from  here  the  ruins  of  the  convent  and  of  half 
a  dozen  brown  hovels.  Nobody  there  now  but 
fishermen.  The  only  white  man  in  the  village 
is  the  priest,  and  I  would  not  wager  to  his 
being  so  all  the  way  through.  A  little  farther 
along,  over  that  island,  if  you  look  close  you 
can  see  a  small  town  ;  it  is  Iguatzio.  There  are 
important  Aztec  remains  about  it.  A  paved 
roadway  leads  to  the  adjoining  village,  which 
was  built  long  before  the  coming  of  the  Span- 
iards. I  do  not  believe  all  the  marvellous  stories 
told  of  the  Aztec  sacrifices,  but  over  the  hill 
yonder  is  the  ruins  of  the  only  genuine  teo- 
calli,  if  there  ever  was  such  a  thing,  in  Mexico. 
I  have  made  a  study  of  these  so-called  Aztec 
monuments,  and  have  examined  most  of  the 
teocallis,  or  sacrificial  mounds,  of  Montezuma's 
people  without  weakening  much  my  unbelief, 
but  I  confess  this  one  puzzles  me.  One  day 
last  winter  1  heard  the  Indians  talking  about 

154 


PATZCUARO  AND  THE  LAKE 

this  mound,  and  two  of  us  paddled  over.  It 
lies  in  a  hollow  of  the  hills  back  of  the  town, 
and  is  enclosed  by  a  stone  wall  about  one  thou- 
sand feet  long,  eight  feet  high,  and  four  feet 
wide.  The  teocalli  itself  stands  in  the  middle  of 
this  quadrangle.  It  is  constructed  in  the  form 
of  a  truncated  cone  about  one  hundred  feet 
square  at  the  base  and  nearly  as  high,  built  en- 
tirely of  stone,  with  an  outside  stairway  wind- 
ing around  its  four  sides.  On  one  corner  of  the 
top  are  the  remains  of  a  small  temple.  I  do  not 
think  half  a  hundred  people  outside  the  natives 
have  ever  seen  it.  If  it  is  not  a  teocalli  there 
is  not  one  in  all  Mexico.  The  fact  is,  no  other 
Aztec  mound  in  Mexico  is  worthy  of  the  name, 
—  not  even  Cholula." 

Suddenly  a  low  point,  until  now  hidden  by 
an  intervening  headland,  pushed  itself  into  the 
lake.  Moon  reached  for  his  spyglass  and  ad- 
justed the  sliding  tube. 

"Do  you  see  those  two  white  specks  over 
that  flat  shore  ?" 

"Perfectly." 

"And  the  clump  of  dark  trees  surrounding 
it?" 

"Yes." 

"  Well,  that  is  Tzintzuntzan.  The  big  speck 
is  what  is  left  of  the  old  Franciscan  convent, 

155 


A  WHITE  UMBRELLA  IN  MEXICO 

the  clump  of  trees  is  the  olive  orchard,  the  an- 
cient burial-place  of  the  Aztecs.  The  little  speck 
is  the  top  of  the  dome  of  the  convent  chapel, 
beneath  which  hangs  your  daub  of  a  Titian." 


156 


XII 
TZINTZUNTZAN  AND  THE  TITIAN 

THE  catamaran  rounded  the  point,  floated 
slowly  up  to  the  beach,  and  anchored  on 
a  shoal  within  a  boat's-length  of  the  shore. 
Strung  along  the  water's  edge,  with  wonder- 
stricken  faces,  were  gathered  half  the  entire 
population  of  Tzintzuntzan.  The  other  half 
were  coming  at  full  speed  over  the  crest  of  the 
hill,  which  partly  hid  the  village  itself. 

There  being  but  two  feet  of  water,  and  those 
wet  ones,  Moon  shot  an  order  in  an  unknown 
tongue  into  the  group  in  front,  starting  two  of 
them  forward,  swung  himself  gracefully  over 
the  shoulders  of  the  first,  —  I  clinging  to  the 
second,  — and  we  landed  dry  shod  in  the  midst 
of  as  curious  a  crowd  of  natives  as  ever  greeted 
the  great  Christopher  himself. 

The  splendor  which  made  Tzintzuntzan  fa- 
mous in  the  days  of  the  good  Bishop  Quiroga, 
when  its  population  numbered  forty  thousand 
souls,  has  long  since  departed.  The  streets  run  at 

157 


A  WHITE  UMBRELLA  IN  MEXICO 

right  angles,  and  are  divided  into  squares  of  ap- 
parently equal  length,  marking  a  city  of  some  im- 
portance in  its  day.  High  walls  surround  each 
garden  and  cast  grateful  shadows.  Many  of 
these  are  broken  by  great  fissures  through  which 
can  be  seen  the  ruins  of  abandoned  tenements 
overgrown  with  weeds  and  tangled  vines.  Along 
the  tops  of  these  walls  fat  melons  ripen  in  the 
dazzling  sun,  their  leaves  and  tendrils  white 
with  dust,  and  from  the  many  seams  and  cracks 
the  cacti  flaunt  their  deep-red  blossoms  in  your 
face. 

We  took  the  path  starting  from  the  beach, 
which  widened  into  a  broad  road  as  it  crossed 
the  hill,  over  which  could  be  seen  the  white 
spire  of  the  church.  This  was  beaten  down  by 
many  feet,  and  marked  the  daily  life  of  the  na- 
tives, —  from  the  church  to  pray,  to  the  shore 
to  fish.  With  the  exception  of  shaping  some 
crude  pottery,  they  literally  do  nothing  else. 

As  we  advanced  along  this  highway,  — 
Moon  carrying  his  spyglass  as  an  Irishman 
would  his  hod  over  his  shoulder,  I  my  umbrella, 
and  the  Indians  my  sketch  trap  and  a  basket 
containing  something  for  the  padre,  —  the  wall 
thickened  and  grew  in  height  until  it  ended  in 
a  cross  wall,  behind  which  stood  the  ruins  of 
a  belfry,  the  broken  bell  still  clinging  to  the 
158 


TZINTZUNTZAN  AND  THE  TITIAN 

rotting  roof  timber.  Adjoining  this  was  a  crum- 
bling archway  without  door  or  hinge. 

This  forlorn  entrance  opened  into  the  grounds 
of  the  once  powerful  establishment  of  San  Fran- 
cisco, closed  and  in  ruins  since  1740.  Beyond 
this  archway  stood  another,  protected  by  a 
heavy  double  iron  grating,  which  once  swung 
wide  to  let  pass  the  splendid  pageants  of  the 
time,  now  rust-incrusted,  and  half  buried  in  the 
ground. 

Once  inside,  the  transition  was  delightful. 
There  was  a  great  garden  or  orchard  planted 
with  olive-trees  of  enormous  size,  their  tops 
still  alive,  and  their  trunks  seamed  and  gnarled 
with  the  storms  of  three  and  a  half  centuries, 
beneath  which  lie  buried  not  only  the  great  dig- 
nitaries of  the  Church,  but  many  of  the  allies 
and  chiefs  of  Cortez  in  the  times  of  the  Taras- 
can  chieftaincy. 

On  one  side  of  this  orchard  is  the  chapel  of 
the  Tercer  Order  and  the  Hospital  and  the  con- 
vent church,  now  the  parrdquia.  We  crossed 
between  the  trees  and  waited  outside  the  con- 
vent building  at  the  foot  of  a  flight  of  stone 
steps,  built  along  an  angle  of  a  projection  and 
leading  to  the  second  floor  of  the  building. 
These  steps  were  crowded  with  Indians,  as 
was  also  the  passageway  within,  waiting  for 

159 


A  WHITE  UMBRELLA  IN  MEXICO 

an  audience  with  the  parish  priest,  whose  apart- 
ments were  above. 

Nothing  can  adequately  describe  the  dilapida- 
tion of  this  entrance  and  its  surroundings.  The 
steps  themselves  had  been  smeared  over  with 
mortar  to  hold  them  together,  the  door  jambs 
were  leaning  and  ready  to  fall,  the  passageway 
itself  ended  in  a  window  which  might  once  have 
held  exquisite  panels  of  stained  glass,  but  which 
was  now  open  to  the  elements  save  where  it 
was  choked  up  with  adobe  bricks  laid  loosely 
in  courses.  The  rooms  opening  into  it  were 
tenantless,  and  infested  with  lizards  and  bats, 
and  the  whole  place,  inside  and  out,  was  fast 
succumbing  to  a  decay  which  seemed  to  have 
reached  its  limit,  and  which  must  soon  end  in 
hopeless  ruin. 

We  found  the  padre  seated  at  a  rude  table  in 
the  darkest  corner  of  a  low-ceiled  room  on  the 
left  of  the  corridor,  surrounded  by  half  a  dozen 
Indian  women.  He  was  at  dinner,  and  the 
women  were  serving  him  from  coarse  earthen 
dishes.  When  he  turned  at  our  intrusion,  we 
saw  a  short,  thickset  man,  wearing  a  greasy 
black  frock,  a  beard  a  week  old,  and  a  smile  so 
treacherous  that  I  involuntarily  tapped  my  in- 
side pocket  to  make  sure  of  its  contents.  He 
arose  lazily,  gathered  upon  his  coat  cuff  the  few 
160 


TZINTZUNTZAN  AND  THE  TITIAN 

stray  crumbs  clinging  to  his  lips,  and  with  a 
searching,  cunning  air,  asked  our  business. 

Moon  shifted  his  spyglass  until  the  large  end 
was  well  balanced  in  his  hand,  and  replied  ob- 
sequiously, "To  see  the  famous  picture,  holy 
father.  This,  my  companion,  is  a  distinguished 
painter  from  the  far  East.  He  has  heard  of  the 
glory  of  this  great  work  of  the  master,  of  which 
you  are  the  sacred  custodian,  and  has  come 
these  many  thousand  miles  to  see  it.  I  hope 
your  reverence  will  not  turn  us  away." 

I  saw  instantly  from  his  face  that  he  had  an- 
ticipated this,  and  that  his  temper  was  not  im- 
proved by  Moon's  request.  I  learned  afterwards 
that  a  canoe  had  left  Patzcuaro  ahead  of  the 
catamaran,  and  that  the  object  of  our  visit  had 
already  been  known  in  Tzintzuntzan  some  hours 
before  we  arrived. 

"  It  is  a  holy  day,"  replied  the  padre  curtly, 
"and  the  sacristy  is  closed.  The  picture  will 
not  be  uncovered." 

With  this  he  turned  his  back  upon  us  and 
resumed  his  seat. 

I  looked  at  Moon.  He  was  sliding  his  hand 
nervously  up  and  down  the  glass,  and  clutch- 
ing its  end  very  much  as  a  man  would  an  In- 
dian club. 

"Leave  him  to  me,"  he  whispered  from 
161 


A  WHITE  UMBRELLA  IN  MEXICO 

behind  his  hand,  noticing  my  disappointment ; 
"  I  Ml  get  into  that  sacristy,  if  1  have  to  bat 
him  through  the  door  with  this." 

In  the  hamper  which  Moon  had  instructed 
Griddles,  the  chef,  to  pack  for  my  comfort  the 
day  before  at  Morelia,  was  a  small  glass  vessel, 
flat  in  shape,  its  contents  repressed  by  a  cork 
covered  with  tinfoil.  When  Moon  landed  from 
the  catamaran  this  vessel  was  concealed  among 
some  boxes  of  dulces  and  fruits  from  the  south- 
ern slope,  inclosed  in  a  wicker  basket,  and  in- 
trusted to  an  Indian  who  now  stood  within 
three  feet  of  the  table. 

"You  are  right,  holy  father,"  said  Moon, 
bowing  low.  "We  must  respect  these  holy 
days.  I  have  brought  your  reverence  some  deli- 
cacies, and  when  the  fast  is  over,  you  can  en- 
joy them." 

Then  he  piled  up  in  the  midst  of  the  rude 
earthen  platters  and  clay  cups  and  bowls,  — 
greasy  with  the  remnants  of  the  meal,  — some 
bunches  of  grapes,  squares  of  dulces,  and  a 
small  bag  of  coffee.  The  flat  vessel  came  last ; 
this  Moon  handled  lovingly,  and  with  the  great- 
est care,  resting  it  finally  against  a  pulque  pot 
which  the  padre  had  just  emptied. 

The  priest  leaned  forward,  held  the  flat  ves- 
sel between  his  nose  and  the  window,  ran  his 
162 


TZINTZUNTZAN  AND  THE  TITIAN 

eyes  along  the  flow  line,  and  glancing  at  the 
women  turned  a  dish  over  it  bottom  side  up. 

"  When  do  you  return  ?"  he  asked. 

"To-day,  your  reverence." 

There  was  a  pause,  during  which  the  padre 
buried  his  face  in  his  hands  and  Moon  played 
pantomime  war  dances  over  the  shaved  spot  on 
his  skull. 

"  How  much  will  the  painter  give  to  the  poor 
of  the  parish  ?"  said  the  padre,  lifting  his  head. 

After  an  exposition  of  the  dismal  poverty  into 
which  the  painter  was  plunged  by  reason  of  his 
calling,  it  was  agreed  that  upon  the  payment 
to  the  padre  of  cinco  pesos  in  silver  —  about  one 
pound  sterling  —  the  painter  might  see  the  pic- 
ture, when  mass  was  over,  the  padre  adding,  — 

"  There  is  presently  a  service.  In  an  hour  it 
will  be  over ;  then  the  sacristan  can  open  the 
door." 

Moon  counted  out  the  money  on  the  table, 
piece  by  piece.  The  padre  weighed  each  coin 
on  his  palm,  bit  one  of  them,  and  with  a  satis- 
fied air  swept  the  whole  into  his  pocket. 

The  tolling  of  a  bell  hurried  the  women  from 
the  room.  The  padre  followed  slowly,  bowing 
his  head  upon  his  breast.  Moon  and  I  brought 
up  the  rear,  passing  down  the  crumbling  corri- 
dor over  the  uneven  flooring  and  upturned  and 
163 


A  WHITE  UMBRELLA  IN  MEXICO 

broken  tiles  and  through  a  low  archway  until 
we  reached  a  gallery  overlooking  a  patio.  Here 
was  a  sight  one  must  come  to  Mexico  to  see. 
Flat  on  the  stone  pavements,  seated  upon  mats 
woven  of  green  rushes,  knelt  a  score  or  more 
of  Indian  women,  their  cheeks  hollow  from  fast- 
ing, and  their  eyes  glistening  with  that  strange 
glassy  look  peculiar  to  half-starved  people. 
Over  their  shoulders  were  twisted  black  rebo- 
zos,  and  around  each  head  was  bound  a  verita- 
ble crown  of  thorns.  In  their  hands  they  held 
scourges  of  platted  nettles.  They  had  sat  here 
day  and  night,  without  leaving  these  mats,  for 
nearly  a  week. 

This  terrible  ceremony  occurs  but  once  a  year, 
during  passion  week.  The  penance  lasts  eight 
days.  Each  penitent  pays  a  sum  of  money  for 
the  privilege,  and  her  name  and  number  are  then 
inscribed  upon  a  sort  of  tally-board  which  is 
hung  on  the  cloister  wall.  Upon  this  are  also 
kept  a  record  of  the  punishment.  The  penitents 
provide  their  zarapes  and  pillows  and  the  rush 
mats  upon  which  to  rest  their  weary  bones ; 
the  priest  furnishes  everything  else, — a  little 
greasy  gruel  and  the  stone  pavement. 

The  padre  threaded  his  way  through  the 
kneeling  groups  without  turning  his  head  to  the 
right  or  left.  When  his  footsteps  were  heard 
164 


TZINTZUNTZAN  AND  THE  TITIAN 

they  repeated  their  prayers  the  louder,  and  one 
young  girl,  weak  from  long  fasting,  raised  her 
eyes  to  the  priest's  pleadingly.  His  stolid  face 
gave  no  sign.  With  downcast  eyes  she  leaned 
forward,  bent  low,  and  kissed  the  hem  of  his 
frock.  As  she  stooped  Moon  pointed  to  the 
marks  of  the  cruel  thorns  on  her  temples. 

"  Shall  I  maul  him  a  little  ?"  he  whispered, 
twisting  the  glass  uneasily. 

"  Wait  until  we  see  the  Titian,"  I  pleaded. 

The  cloister  led  into  the  chapel.  It  was  bare 
of  even  the  semblance  of  a  house  of  worship. 
But  for  the  altar  at  one  end,  and  a  few  lighted 
candles,  it  might  have  passed  for  the  old  re- 
fectory of  the  convent.  We  edged  our  way 
between  the  kneeling  groups  and  passed  out  of 
a  side  door  into  an  open  court.  Moon  touched 
my  arm. 

"  See  !  that  about  measures  the  poverty  of 
the  place,"  he  said.  "  One  coffin  for  the  whole 
village." 

On  a  rude  bier  lay  a  wooden  box,  narrowed 
at  one  end.  It  was  made  of  white  wood,  deco- 
rated on  the  outside  with  a  rough  design  in  blue 
and  yellow.  The  bottom  was  covered  with 
dried  leaves,  and  the  imprint  of  the  head  and 
shoulders  of  the  poor  fellow  who  had  occupied 
it  a  few  hours  before  was  still  distinct. 
165 


A  WHITE  UMBRELLA  IN  MEXICO 

"Two  underneath,  one  inside,  a  mumbled 
prayer,  then  he  helps  to  fill  the  hole  and  they 
save  the  box  for  the  next.  A  little  too  narrow 
for  the  padre,  I  am  afraid,"  soliloquized  Moon, 
measuring  the  width  with  his  eye. 

Another  tap  of  the  bell,  and  the  Indians  strag- 
gled out  of  the  church  and  dispersed,  some 
going  to  the  village,  others  halting  under  the 
great  tree  trunks,  watching  us  curiously.  In- 
deed, I  had  before  this  become  aware  of  an 
especial  espionage  over  us,  which  was  never 
relaxed  for  a  single  instant.  A  native  would 
start  out  from  a  doorway  as  soon  as  we  touched 
the  threshold,  another  would  be  concealed  be- 
hind a  tree  or  projecting  wall  until  we  passed. 
Then  he  would  walk  away  aimlessly,  looking 
back  and  signalling  to  another  hidden  some- 
where else.  This  is  not  unusual  with  these 
natives.  They  have  always  resented  every 
overture  to  part  with  their  picture,  and  are  par- 
ticularly suspicious  of  strangers  who  come  from 
a  distance  to  see  it,  they  worshipping  it  with  a 
blind  idolatry  easily  understood  in  their  race. 

This  fear  of  invasion  also  extends  to  their  vil- 
lage and  church.  It  has  been  known  for  several 
years  that  an  underground  passageway  led  from 
a  point  near  the  church  to  the  old  convent,  and 
in  1855  a  party  of  savants,  under  the  direction 
166 


TZINTZUNTZAN  AND  THE  TITIAN 

of  Father  Aguirre,  began  to  uncover  its  entrance. 
No  open  resistance  was  made  by  the  natives, 
but  in  the  silence  of  the  night  each  stone  and 
shovelful  of  earth  was  noiselessly  replaced. 

A  few  years  later  the  Bishop  of  Mexico  of- 
fered for  this  picture  the  sum  of  twenty  thousand 
pesetas,  a  sum  of  money  fabulous  in  their  eyes, 
and  which  if  honestly  divided  would  have  made 
each  native  richer  than  an  Aztec  prince.  I  do 
not  know  whether  their  religious  prejudices 
influenced  them,  or  whether,  remembering  the 
quality  of  the  penance  gruel,  they  dare  not  trust 
the  padre  to  divide  it,  but  all  the  same  it  was 
refused.  Moon  assured  me  that  if  the  painting 
ever  left  its  resting  place  it  must  go  without 
warning,  and  be  protected  by  an  armed  force. 
It  would  be  certain  death  to  any  one  to  attempt 
its  removal  otherwise,  and  he  firmly  believed 
that  sooner  than  see  it  leave  their  village  the 
Indians  would  destroy  it. 

"  Senior,  the  padre  says  come  to  him." 

The  messenger  was  a  sun-dried,  shrivelled 
Mexican  half-breed,  with  a  wicked  eye  and  a 
beak-like  nose.  About  his  head  was  twisted 
a  red  handkerchief,  over  which  was  flattened  a 
heavy  felt  sombrero.  He  was  barefooted,  and 
his  trousers  were  held  up  by  a  leather  strap. 

"  Who  are  you  ?  "  said  Moon. 
167 


A  WHITE  UMBRELLA  IN  MEXICO 

"  I  am  the  sacristan." 

"  I  thought  so.  Lead  on.  A  lovely  pair  of 
cherubs,  are  they  not  ?  " 

The  padre  met  us  at  the  door.  He  had  sad 
news  for  us  ;  his  mortification  was  extreme. 
The  man  who  cleaned  the  sacristy  had  locked 
the  door  that  morning  and  started  for  Quiroga 
on  a  donkey.  No  one  else  had  a  key. 

I  suggested  an  immediate  chartering  of  an- 
other and  somewhat  livelier  donkey,  with  in- 
structions to  overtake  and  bring  back  the  man 
with  the  key,  dead  or  alive.  The  padre  shrugged 
his  shoulders,  and  said  there  was  but  one  don- 
key in  the  village,  —  he  was  underneath  the 
man  with  the  key.  Moon  closed  one  eye  and 
turned  the  other  incredulously  on  the  priest. 

"  When  will  the  man  return  ?  " 

"  In  three  days." 

"Your  reverence,"  said  the  commodore 
slowly,  "  do  not  send  for  him.  It  might  annoy 
him  to  be  hurried.  We  will  break  in  the  door 
and  pay  for  a  new  lock." 

Then  followed  a  series  of  protests,  beginning 
with  the  sacrilege  of  mutilating  so  sacred  a  door, 
and  ending  with  a  suggestion  from  the  saffron- 
colored  sacristan  that  an  additional  cinco  pesos 
would  about  cover  the  mutilation,  provided 
every  centavo  of  it  was  given  to  the  poor  of  the 
168 


TZINTZUNTZAN  AND  THE  TITIAN 

parish,  and  that  the  further  insignificant  sum 
of  five  pesetas,  if  donated  to  the  especial  use 
of  his  sun-dried  excellency,  might  induce  him 
to  revive  one  of  his  lost  arts,  and  operate  on 
the  lock  with  a  rusty  nail. 

Moon  counted  out  the  money  with  a  sup- 
pressed sigh,  remarking  that  he  had  "  always 
pitied  the  poor,  but  never  so  much  as  now." 
Then  we  followed  the  padre  and  the  sacristan 
down  the  winding  steps  leading  to  the  cloister, 
through  the  dark  corridor,  past  the  entrance  to 
the  chapel,  and  halted  at  an  arch  closed  by  two 
swinging  doors.  His  yellowness  fumbled  among 
some  refuse  in  one  corner,  picked  up  a  bit  of 
debris,  applied  his  eyes  to  an  imaginary  key- 
hole, and  pushed  open  a  pair  of  wooden  doors 
entirely  bare  of  lock,  hasp,  or  latch.  They  had 
doubtless  swung  loose  for  half  a  century !  I 
had  to  slip  my  arm  through  Moon's  and  pin  his 
toes  to  the  pavement  to  keep  him  still. 

The  padre  and  the  half-breed  uncovered  and 
dropped  upon  their  knees.  I  looked  over  their 
heads  into  a  room  about  thirty  feet  long  by 
twenty  w'de,  with  a  high  ceiling  of  straight, 
square  raiters.  The  floor  was  paved  in  great 
squares  of  marble  laid  diagonally,  the  walls 
were  seamed,  cracked,  and  weather-stained. 
The  only  opening  other  than  the  door  was  a 
169 


A  WHITE  UMBRELLA  IN  MEXICO 

large  window,  protected  on  the  outside  by  three 
sets  of  iron  gratings,  and  on  the  inside  by  dou- 
ble wooden  shutters.  The  window  was  with- 
out glass.  The  only  articles  of  furniture  visible 
were  a  round  table,  with  curved  legs,  occupying 
the  centre  of  the  room,  a  towel-rack  and  towel 
hung  on  the  wall,  and  a  row  of  wooden  drawers 
built  like  a  bureau,  completely  filling  the  end 
of  the  room  opposite  the  door.  Over  this  was 
hung,  or  rather  fitted,  the  three  sides  of  a  huge 
carved  frame,  showing  traces  of  having  once 
been  gilded,  —  the  space  was  not  high  enough  to 
admit  its  top  member.  Inside  this  frame  glowed 
the  noble  picture.  1  forgot  the  padre,  the  oily- 
tongued  sacristan,  and  even  my  friend  Moon, 
in  my  wonder,  loosened  my  trap,  opened  the 
stool,  and  sat  down  with  bated  breath  to  enjoy 
it. 

My  first  thought  was  of  its  marvellous  pre- 
servation. More  than  three  hundred  years  have 
elapsed  since  the  great  master  touched  it,  and 
yet  one  is  deluded  into  the  belief  that  it  was 
painted  but  yesterday,  so  fresh,  pure,  and  rich 
is  its  color.  This  is  no  doubt  due  to  the  climate, 
and  to  the  clear  air  circulating  through  the  open 
window. 

The  picture  is  an  Entombment,  sixteen  feet 
long  by  seven  feet  high.  Surrounding  the  dead 
170 


TZINTZUNTZAN  AND  THE  TITIAN 

Christ  wrapped  in  a  winding  sheet,  one  end  of 
which  is  held  in  the  teeth  of  a  disciple,  stand 
the  Virgin,  Magdalen,  Saint  John,  and  nine 
other  figures,  all  life-size.  In  the  upper  left- 
hand  corner  is  a  bit  of  blue  sky,  against  which 
is  relieved  an  Italian  villa,  —  the  painter's  own, 
a  caprice  of  Titian's  often  seen  in  his  later 
works. 

The  high  lights  fall  upon  the  arm  of  the  Sav- 
iour drooping  from  the  hammock-shaped  sheet 
in  which  he  is  carried,  and  upon  the  head-cov- 
ering of  the  Virgin  bending  over  him.  A  secon- 
dary light  is  found  in  the  patch  of  blue  sky. 
To  the  right  and  behind  the  group  of  disciples 
the  shadows  are  intensely  dark,  relieving  the 
rich  tones  of  the  browns  and  blues  in  the  drap- 
eries, and  the  flesh  tones  for  which  the  painter 
is  famous.  The  exquisite  drawing  of  each  figure, 
the  gradation  of  light  and  shade,  the  marvellous 
composition,  the  relief  and  modelling  of  the 
Christ,  the  low  but  luminous  tones  in  which  it 
is  painted,  the  superb  harmony  of  these  tones, 
all  pronounce  it  the  work  of  a  master. 

The  questions  naturally  arise,  Is  it  by  Titian  ? 
and  if  so,  How  came  it  here  in  an  Indian  village 
in  the  centre  of  Mexico,  and  why  has  it  been 
lost  all  these  years  to  the  art  world  ?  To  the 
first  I  answer,  If  not  by  Titian,  who  then  of  his 
171 


A  WHITE  UMBRELLA  IN  MEXICO 

time  could  paint  it  ?  The  second  is  easier :  Un- 
til the  railroads  of  the  last  few  years  opened  up 
the  country,  Mexico's  isolation  was  complete. 

A  slight  resume  of  the  history  of  its  surround- 
ings may  shed  some  light  on  these  questions. 
After  the  ruin  wrought  in  Michoacan  in  the  early 
part  of  the  sixteenth  century  by  the  evil  acts 
of  Nino  de  Guzman,  — the  president  of  the  first 
Audencia,  —  terminating  in  the  burning  of  the 
Tarascan  chief  Sinzicha,  the  people,  maddened 
with  terror,  fled  to  the  mountains  around  Tzin- 
tzuntzan  and  refused  to  return  to  their  homes. 
To  remedy  these  evils,  the  Emperor  Charles  V. 
selected  the  members  of  the  second  Audencia 
from  among  the  wisest  and  best  men  of  Spain. 
One  of  these  was  an  intimate  friend  of  the  em- 
peror, an  eminent  lawyer,  the  Licenciado  Vasco 
de  Quiroga.  Being  come  to  Mexico,  Don  Vasco, 
in  the  year  1533,  visited  the  depopulated  towns, 
and  with  admirable  patience,  gentleness,  and 
love,  prevailed  on  the  terror-stricken  Indians  to 
have  faith  in  him  and  return  to  their  homes.1 

The  bishopric  of  Michoacan  was  then  founded, 
and  this  mitre  was  offered  to  Quiroga,  though 
he  was  then  a  layman.  Thereupon  Quiroga 
took  holy  orders,  and  having  been  raised  quickly 
through  the  successive  grades  of  the  priesthood, 

1  Janvier's  Mexican  Guide, 


TZINTZUNTZAN  AND  THE  TITIAN 

was  consecrated  a  bishop  and  took  possession 
of  his  see  in  the  church  of  San  Francisco  in  Tzin- 
tzuntzan  August  22,  1538.  He  was  then  sixty- 
eight  years  old.  As  bishop,  he  completed  the 
conquest  through  love  that  he  had  begun  while 
yet  a  layman.  He  established  schools  of  let- 
ters and  the  arts ;  introduced  manufactures  of 
copper  and  other  metals  ;  imported  from  Spain 
cattle  and  seeds  for  acclimatization  ;  founded 
hospitals,  and  established  the  first  university 
of  New  Spain,  that  of  San  Nicholas,  now  in 
Morelia. 

When  Philip  II.  ascended  the  throne  the  good 
deeds  of  the  holy  bishop  had  reached  his  ears, 
and  the  power  and  growth  of  his  see  had  deeply 
touched  the  heart  of  the  devout  monarch, — 
awakening  in  his  mind  a  profound  interest  in 
the  welfare  of  the  church  at  Tzintzuntzan  and 
Patzcuaro.  During  this  period  the  royal  palaces 
at  Madrid  were  filled  with  the  finest  pictures 
of  Titian,  and  the  royal  family  of  Spain  formed 
the  subjects  of  his  best  portraits.  The  Emperor 
Charles  V.  had  been  and  was  then  one  of  the 
master's  most  liberal  patrons.  He  had  made 
him  a  count,  heaped  upon  him  distinguished 
honors,  and  had  been  visited  by  him  twice  at 
Augsburg  and  once  at  Bologna,  where  he  painted 
his  portrait.  It  is  even  claimed  by  some  bio- 

173 


A  WHITE  UMBRELLA  IN  MEXICO 

graphers  that  by  special  invitation  of  his  royal 
patron  Titian  visited  Spain  about  the  year  1 5  50, 
and  was  entertained  with  great  splendor  at  the 
court.  Moreover,  it  is  well  known  that  he  was 
granted  a  pension,  and  that  this  was  kept  up  by 
Philip  until  the  painter's  death. 

Remembering  the  dates  at  which  these  events 
took  place  ;  the  fanatical  zeal  of  Philip,  and  his 
interest  in  the  distant  church,  redeemed  and 
made  glorious  by  Quiroga,  the  friend  and  pro- 
tege of  his  royal  predecessor ;  the  possible  pre- 
sence of  Titian  at  the  court  at  the  time,  certainly 
the  influence  of  his  masterpieces,  together  with 
the  fact  that  the  subject  of  this  picture  was  a 
favorite  one  with  him,  notably  the  Entombment 
in  Venice  and  the  replica  at  the  Louvre,  it  is 
quite  within  the  range  of  probability  that  Philip 
either  ordered  this  especial  picture  from  the 
master  himself,  or  selected  it  from  the  royal 
collection. 

It  is  quite  improbable,  in  view  of  the  above 
facts,  that  the  royal  donor  would  have  sent  the 
work  of  an  inferior  painter,  representing  it  to  be 
by  Titian,  or  a  copy  by  one  of  his  pupils. 

Another  distinguishing  feature,  and  by  far 
the  most  conclusive,  is  its  handling.  Without 
strong  contrasting  tones  of  color,  Titian  worked 
out  a  peculiar  golden  mellow  tone,  —  which  of 

174 


TZINTZUNTZAN  AND  THE  TITIAN 

itself  exercises  a  magical  charm,  —  and  divided 
it  into  innumerable  small  but  significant  shades, 
producing  thereby  a  most  complete  illusion  of 
life.  This  Titianesque  quality  is  particularly 
marked  in  the  nude  body  of  the  Christ,  the  flesh 
appearing  to  glow  with  a  hidden  light. 

Moon's  criticisms  were  thoroughly  character- 
istic. He  hoped  I  was  satisfied.  Did  I  want  to 
see  both  sides  of  it  ?  If  I  did,  he  would  push  out 
the  rear  wall.  Would  the  spyglass  be  of  any 
use,  etc.  I  waved  him  away,  opened  my  easel, 
and  began  a  hurried  memorandum  of  the  inte- 
rior, and  a  rough  outline  of  the  position  of  the 
figures  on  the  canvas.  When  his  retreating 
footsteps  echoed  down  the  corridor,  I  closed  the 
doors  gently  behind  him  and  resumed  my  work. 
The  picture  absorbed  me.  I  wanted  to  be  shut 
up  alone  with  it. 

A  sense  of  a  sort  of  temporary  ownership 
comes  over  one  when  left  alone  in  a  room  con- 
taining some  priceless  treasure  or  thing  of  beauty 
not  his  own.  It  is  a  selfish  pleasure  which  is  un- 
disturbed, and  which  you  do  not  care  to  share 
with  another.  For  the  time  being  you  monopolize 
it,  and  it  is  as  really  your  own  as  if  you  had  the 
bill  of  sale  in  your  pocket.  I  deluded  myself  with 
this  fancy,  and  began  examining  more  closely 
the  iron  gratings  of  the  window  and  the  manner 

175 


A  WHITE  UMBRELLA  IN  MEXICO 

of  fastening  them  to  the  masonry,  wondering 
whether  they  would  always  be  secure.  I  in- 
spected all  the  rude  ornaments  on  the  front  of 
the  drawers  of  the  wide,  low  bureau  which  stood 
immediately  beneath  the  picture  ;  opened  one 
of  them  a  few  inches  and  discovered  a  bundle 
of  vestments,  dust-covered  and  spattered  with 
candle  grease.  Lifting  myself  up  I  noted  the 
carving  of  the  huge  frame,  and  followed  the 
lines  of  the  old  gilding  into  its  dust-begrimed 
channels ;  and  to  make  a  closer  study  of  the 
texture  of  the  canvas  and  the  handling  of  the 
pigments,  I  mounted  the  bureau  itself  and 
walked  the  length  of  the  painting,  applying  my 
pocket  magnifying  glass  to  the  varnished  sur- 
face. When  I  stood  upright  the  drooping  figure 
of  the  Christ  reached  nearly  to  the  level  of  my 
eye.  Looking  closer,  I  found  the  over-glaze  to 
be  rich  and  singularly  transparent,  and  after  a 
careful  scrutiny  fancied  I  could  separate  into 
distinct  tones  the  peculiar  mosaic  of  color  in 
which  most  of  all  lies  the  secret  of  Titian's 
flesh.  In  the  eagerness  of  my  search  I  uncon- 
sciously bent  forward  and  laid  my  hand  upon 
the  Christ. 

"Cuidado!  Estrangero,  es  miter te!"  (Be- 
ware!  Stranger,  it  is  death  !)  came  a  quick, 
angry  voice  in  my  rear. 
176 


TZINTZUNTZAN  AND  THE  TITIAN 

I  started  back  with  my  heart  in  my  mouth. 
Behind  me,  inside  the  doors,  stood  two  Indians. 
One  advanced  threateningly,  the  other  rushed 
out  shouting  for  the  padre.  In  an  instant  the 
room  was  crowded  with  natives  clamoring 
wildly,  and  pointing  at  me  with  angry  looks 
and  gestures.  The  padre  arrived  breathless, 
followed  by  Moon,  who  had  forced  his  way 
through  the  throng,  his  big  frame  towering 
above  the  others. 

During  the  hubbub  I  kept  my  place  on  the 
bureau,  undecided  what  to  do. 

"  You  have  put  your  foot  in  it !  "  said  Moon 
to  me  in  English,  in  a  tone  of  voice  new  to  me 
from  him.  "  Do  exactly  what  I.  tell  you,  and 
perhaps  we  may  get  away  from  here  with  a 
whole  skin.  Turn  your  face  to  the  picture."  I 
did  so.  "  Now  come  down  from  that  old  clothes- 
press  backwards,  get  down  on  your  knees,  and 
bow  three  times,  you  lunatic." 

I  had  sense  enough  left  to  do  this  reverently, 
and  with  some  show  of  ceremony. 

Then,  without  moving  a  muscle  of  his  face, 
and  with  the  deepest  earnestness,  Moon  turned 
to  the  padre  and  said,  — 

"  The  distinguished  painter  is  a  true  believer, 
holy  father.  His  hand  had  lost  its  cunning  and 
he  could  no  longer  paint.  He  was  fold  in  a 
177 


A  WHITE  UMBRELLA  IN  MEXICO 

dream  to  journey  to  this  place,  where  he  would 
find  his  sacred  treasure,  upon  touching  which 
his  hand  would  regain  its  power.  See  !  Here  is 
the  proof." 

The  padre  examined  the  sketch  resting  upon 
my  easel,  and,  without  taking  his  eye  from 
Moon,  repeated  the  miracle  to  the  Indians  in 
their  own  tongue.  The  change  in  their  de- 
meanor was  instantaneous.  The  noise  ceased  ; 
a  silence  fell  upon  the  group  and  they  crowded 
about  the  drawing,  wonderstruck.  Moon  bowed 
low  to  the  padre,  caught  up  the  standing  easel, 
threw  my  trap  over  his  shoulder,  pushed  me 
ahead  of  him  ;  an  opening  was  made,  —  the 
people  standing  back  humbly,  —  and  we  passed 
through  the  crowd  and  out  into  the  sunlight. 

Once  clear  of  the  church  he  led  the  way 
straight  to  the  catamaran,  hoisted  the  sail, 
manned  the  sweeps,  swung  the  rudder  clear  of 
the  shoal,  and  headed  for  Patzcuaro.  When 
everything  was  snug  and  trim  for  the  voyage 
home,  and  the  catamaran  had  drifted  slowly  out 
into  the  deep  water  of  the  lake,  the  commodore 
lounged  down  the  deck,  laid  his  hand  upon  my 
shoulder,  and  said,  half  reprovingly,  — 

"  Well,  you  beat  the  devil." 

When  we  pushed  off  from  Tzintzuntzan,  the 
afternoon  sun  was  glorifying  our  end  of  the 
178 


TZINTZUNTZAN  AND  THE  TITIAN 

universe,  and  in  our  delirium  we  fancied  we  had 
but  to  spread  our  one  wing  to  reach  bed  and 
board,  fifteen  miles  distant,  before  the  rosy 
twilight  could  fade  into  velvet  blue.  But  the 
wind  was  contrary.  It  was  worse  —  it  was  ma- 
licious. It  blew  south,  then  north,  and  then 
took  a  flying  turn  all  around  the  four  points 
of  the  compass,  and  finally  settled  down  to  a 
steady  freshness  dead  ahead.  For  hours  at  a 
time  low  points  of  land  and  high  hills  guarded 
by  sentinel  trees  anchored  themselves  off  our 
weather  bow  as  if  loath  to  part  from  us,  and 
remained  immovable  until  an  extra  spurt  at  the 
sweeps  drove  them  into  the  darkness.  To  return 
was  hazardous,  to  drift  ashore  dangerous,  to 
advance  almost  impossible.  As  the  night  wore 
on  the  wind  grew  tired  of  frolicking  and  went 
careering  over  the  mountains  behind  us.  Then 
the  lake  grew  still,  and  the  sweeps  gained  upon 
the  landscape  and  point  after  point  floated  off 
mysteriously  and  disappeared  in  the  gloom. 

All  night  we  lay  on  the  deck,  looking  up  at 
the  stars  and  listening  to  the  steady  plashing 
of  the  sweeps,  pitying  the  poor  fellows  at  their 
task  and  lending  a  hand  now  and  then  to  give 
them  a  breathing  spell.  The  thin  crescent  of 
the  new  moon,  which  had  glowed  into  life  as 
the  color  left  the  evening  sky,  looked  at  us 
179 


A  WHITE  UMBRELLA  IN  MEXICO 

wonderingly  for  a  while,  then  concluding  that 
we  intended  making  a  night  of  it,  dropped  down 
behind  the  hills  of  Zanicho  and  went  to  bed. 
Her  namesake  wrapped  his  own  coat  about  me, 
protesting  that  the  night  air  was  bad  for  foreign- 
ers, threw  one  end  of  the  ragged  tarpaulin  over 
his  own  shoulders,  tucked  a  hamper  under  his 
head,  and  spent  the  night  moralizing  over  the 
deliberate  cruelty  of  my  desertion  in  the  morning. 

It  was  a  long  and  dreary  voyage.  The  pro- 
vender was  exhausted.  There  was  not  on  board 
a  crumb  large  enough  to  feed  a  fly.  Between 
the  padre,  the  six  Indians,  and  ourselves  every 
fig,  dulce,  bone,  crust,  and  drop  had  disap- 
peared. 

When  the  first  streak  of  light  illumined  the 
sky  we  found  ourselves  near  enough  to  Patz- 
cuaro  to  follow  the  outline  of  the  hills  around 
the  town  and  locate  the  little  huts  close  to  the 
shore.  When  the  dawn  broke  clear  we  were 
pushing  aside  the  tall  grass  near  the  beach,  and 
the  wild  fowl,  startled  from  their  haunts,  were 
whirling  around  our  heads. 

The  barking  of  a  dog  aroused  the  inmates  of 
a  cabin  near  the  water's  edge,  and  half  an  hour 
later  Moon  was  pounding  coffee  in  a  bag  and  I 
devilling  the  legs  of  a  turkey  over  a  charcoal 
brazier,  —  the  inmates  had  devoured  all  but  the 
180 


TZINTZUNTZAN  AND  THE  TITIAN 

drumsticks  the  night  before.  We  were  grateful 
that  he  was  not  a  cripple.  While  the  savory 
smell  of  the  toasted  cacone,  mingled  with  the 
aroma  of  boiling  coffee,  filled  the  room,  Moon 
set  two  plates,  cut  some  great  slices  of  bread 
from  a  loaf  which  he  held  between  his  knees, 
and  divided  equally  the  remnants  of  the  frugal 
meal.  Two  anatomical  specimens  picked  clean 
and  white  and  two  empty  plates  told  the  story 
of  our  appetites. 

"  At  eight  o'clock,  caro  mio,  the  train  returns 
to  the  East.  Do  you  still  insist  on  being  barba- 
rous enough  to  leave  me  ?  What  have  I  done 
to  you  that  you  should  treat  me  thus  ?" 

I  pleaded  my  necessities.  1  had  reached  the 
end  of  my  journey.  My  task  was  completed  ; 
henceforth  my  face  must  be  set  towards  the  ris- 
ing sun.  Would  he  return  as  far  with  me  as 
Zacatecas,  or  even  to  the  city  of  Mexico  ? 

No,  he  expected  a  despatch  from  his  chief. 
He  would  stay  at  Patzcuaro. 

I  expected  this.  It  was  always  his  chief.  No 
human  being  had  ever  seen  him  ;  no  messenger 
had  ever  brought  news  of  his  arrival ;  no  em- 
ployee had  ever  explained  his  delay.  In  none  of 
the  cities  through  which  we  had  travelled  had 
Moon  ever  spent  five  minutes  in  looking  him  up, 
or  ten  seconds  in  regretting  his  absence. 
181 


A  WHITE  UMBRELLA  IN  MEXICO 

When  my  traps  were  aboard,  and  the  breezy, 
happy-hearted  fellow  had  wrung  my  hand  for 
the  twentieth  time,  I  said  to  him,  — 

"  Moon,  one  thing  before  we  part.  Have  you 
ever  seen  your  chief  for  a  single  instant  since 
we  left  Toluca  ?" 

He  looked  at  me  quizzically,  closed  his  left 
eye,  —  a  habit  with  him  when  anything  pleased 
him  greatly,  — and  replied, — 

"  A  dozen  times." 

"Where  ?"  I  asked  doubtingly. 

"When  I  shave." 


182 


IN  OTHER  LANDS 


UNDER  THE   MINARETS 

IT  was  a  small,  not  over-clean,  and  much 
crumpled  card. 

It  was  held  very  near  my  nose,  and  above 
the  heads  of  a  struggling,  snarling  pack  of  Turks, 
Armenians,  Greeks,  and  Jews,  all  yelling  at  the 
tops  of  their  voices,  and  all  held  at  bay  by  a 
protecting  rail  in  the  station  and  two  befezzed 
officers  attached  to  the  custom-house  of  his  Se- 
rene Highness.  It  bore  this  inscription:  — 

ISAAC  ISAACS. 
Dragoman  and  Interpreter, 

Constantinople. 

Beyond  this  seething  mass  of  Orientals  was 
seen  an  open  door,  and  through  this  only  the 
sunlight,  a  patch  of  gr°en  grass,  and  the  glimpse 
of  a  minaret  against  the  blue. 

Yes;  one  thing  more  —  the  card. 

The  owner  carried  it  aloft,  like  a  flag  of  truce. 
He  had  escaped  the  tax-gathering  section  of  the 
185 


UNDER  THE  MINARETS 

Sublime  Porte  by  dodging  under  the  guarded 
rail,  and  with  fez  to  earth  was  now  pressing  its 
oblong  proportions  within  an  inch  of  my  eye- 
glasses. 

"  Do  you  speak  English  ?  " 

"  Ev'ting  :  Yerman,  Franche,  Grek,  Teark- 
ish  — all!" 

"  Take  this  sketch  trap,  and  get  me  a  car- 
riage." 

The  fez  righted  itself,  and  I  looked  into  the 
face  of  a  swarthy,  dark-bearded  mongrel,  with 
a  tobacco-colored  complexion  and  a  watery  eye. 
He  was  gasping  for  breath  and  reeking  with 
perspiration,  the  back  of  his  hand  serving  as 
sponge. 

I  handed  him  my  check,  —  through  bag- 
gage Orient  Express,  two  days  from  Vienna,  — 
stepped  into  the  half-parched  garden,  and  drank 
in  my  first  full  breath  of  Eastern  air. 

Within  the  garden  —  an  oasis,  barely  kept 
alive  by  periodical  sprinkling  —  lounged  a  few 
railroad  officials  hugging  scant  shadows,  and 
one  lone  Turk  dispensing  cooling  drinks  beneath 
a  huge  umbrella. 

Outside  the  garden's  protecting  fence  wan- 
dered half  the  lost  tribes  of  the  earth.  Some 
staggered  under  huge  casks  of  wine  swung  on 
poles  ;  some  bent  under  cases  as  large  as  pianos  ; 
1 86 


UNDER  THE  MINARETS 

some  were  hawking  bread,  Turkish  sweets, 
grapes,  and  sugared  figs ;  some  were  peddling 
clothes,  some  sandals,  some  water-jars  :  each 
splitting  the  air  with  a  combination  of  shouts 
and  cries  that  would  have  done  justice  to  a 
travelling  menagerie  two  hours  late  for  break- 
fast. In  and  out  this  motley  mob  slouched  the 
dogs,  —  in  the  middle  of  the  street,  under  the 
benches,  in  everybody's  way  and  under  every- 
body's feet :  everywhere  dogs,  dogs,  dogs  ! 

Beyond  this  babel  straggled  a  low  building 
attached  to  the  station.  Above  rose  a  ragged 
hill  crowned  by  a  shimmering  wall  of  dazzling 
white,  topped  with  rounded  dome  and  slender 
minarets.  Over  all  was  the  beautiful  sky  of 
the  East,  the  joy  and  despair  of  every  brush 
from  the  earliest  times  down  to  my  own. 

Ever  since  the  days  of  the  Arabian  Nights 
—  my  days  —  the  days  of  Haroun  al  Raschid, 
of  the  big  jars  with  the  forty  scalded  thieves  and 
the  beautiful  Fatima  with  the  almond-shaped 
eyes,  I  have  dreamed  of  the  Orient  and  its 
palaces  of  marble.  And  so,  when  Baron  de  Hirsch 
had  brought  the  home  of  the  Caliphs  within 
two  days'  journey  of  the  domes  of  San  Marco, 
I  threw  some  extra  canvases  into  a  trunk,  tucked 
a  passport  into  my  inside  pocket,  shouldered  my 
187 


UNDER  THE  MINARETS 

sketch  trap,  and  bought  a  second-class  ticket 
for  Constantinople. 

I  had  only  one  object,  to  paint. 

My  comrades  at  Florian's  —  that  most  de- 
lightful of  caffes  on  the  Piazza  —  when  they 
heard  that  1  was  about  to  exchange  the  cool 
canals  of  my  beloved  Venice  for  the  dusty  high- 
ways of  the  unspeakable  Turk,  condemned  my 
departure  as  quixotic.  The  fleas  would  devour 
me  ;  the  beggars  (all  bandits)  steal  my  last 
franc  ;  and  the  government  lock  me  up  the  very 
first  moment  1  loosened  my  sketch  trap. 

But  Isaac  Isaacs,  the  dragoman,  is  standing 
obsequiously  with  fez  in  hand,  two  little  rivu- 
lets of  well-earned  sweat  coursing  down  each 
cheek. 

"Ze  baggages  ees  complet,  effendi." 

Isaac  crawled  upon  the  box,  the  driver,  a 
bare-legged  Turk  with  fez  and  stomach  sash, 
drove  his  heel  into  the  haunches  of  the  near 
horse,  once,  no  doubt,  the  pride  of  the  desert, 
and  we  whirled  away  in  a  cloud  of  dust. 

"  I  don't  see  my  trunk,  Isaac." 

"  Not  presently,  effendi.  It  now  arrives  im- 
mediatamente  at  the  dogane.  Trust  me  !  " 

Five  minutes  more,  and  we  alighted  at  the 
custom-house. 

"This  way,  effendi." 
188 


UNDER  THE  MINARETS 

For  the  benefit  of  those  unfamiliar  with  the 
liquid  language  of  the  Orient,  I  will  say  that 
effendi  means  master,  and  that  it  is  never  ap- 
plied except  to  some  distinguished  person,  — 
one  who  has,  or  is  expected  to  have,  the  sum 
of  half  a  piastre  about  his  person. 

Isaac  presented  the  check  —  a  scrap  of  paper 
—  to  another  befezzed  official,  and  the  next 
moment  ushered  me  into  a  small  room  on  the 
ground  floor,  furnished  with  a  divan,  a  tray  with 
coffee  and  cigarettes,  and  an  overfed,  cross- 
legged  Turk.  There  was  also  a  secretary,  curled 
up  somewhere  in  a  corner,  scratching  away  with 
a  pen. 

I  salaamed  to  the  Turk,  detailed  into  the  sec- 
retary's ear  an  account  of  my  birth  and  ances- 
try, my  several  occupations  and  ambitions,  my 
early  life  at  home,  my  past  life  in  Venice,  and 
my  present  intentions  in  Constantinople.  I 
then  opened  my  passport,  sketch-book,  and 
trap,  and  delivered  up  the  key  of  my  trunk. 

The  secretary  undid  his  legs,  stamped  upon 
my  official  passport  a  monogram  of  authority 
looking  more  like  the  image  of  a  fish-worm  pet- 
rified in  the  last  agonies  of  death  than  any  writ- 
ten sign  with  which  I  was  familiar,  and  clapped 
his  hands  in  a  perfectly  natural  Aladdin  sort 
of  way.  A  genie  in  the  shape  of  a  Nubian, 
189 


UNDER  THE  MINARETS 

immeasurably  black,  moved  from  behind  a  cur- 
tain, and  in  five  minutes  my  trunk  holding  the 
extra  canvases,  with  a  great  white  cross  of 
peace  chalked  upon  its  face,  was  strapped  to 
the  carriage,  and  we  on  our  way  to  the  Royal. 
As  I  said  before,  I  had  come  to  Constantino- 
ple to  paint.  Not  to  study  its  exquisite  palaces 
and  mosques  ;  its  marvellous  stuffs  ;  its  roman- 
tic history ;  its  religion,  the  most  profound  and 
impressive  ;  its  commerce,  industries,  and  cus- 
toms ;  but  simply  to  paint.  To  revel  in  color  ; 
to  sit  for  hours  following  with  reverent  pencil 
the  details  of  an  architecture  unrivalled  on  the 
globe  ;  to  watch  the  sun  scale  the  hills  of  Scu- 
tari, and  shatter  its  lances  against  the  fairy 
minarets  of  Stamboul ;  to  catch  the  swing  and 
plash  of  the  rowers  rounding  their  caiques  by 
the  bridge  of  Galata ;  to  wander  through  ba- 
zaar, plaza,  and  market,  dotting  down  splashes 
of  robe,  turban,  and  sash  ;  to  rest  for  hours  in 
cool  tiled  mosques,  with  the  silence  of  the  infi- 
nite about  me  ;  to  steep  my  soul  in  a  splendor 
which  in  its  very  decay  is  sublime ;  and  to 
study  a  people  whose  rags  are  symphonies  of 
color,  whose  traditions  and  records  the  sweetest 
poems  of  modern  times.  If  you  are  content  with 
only  this,  then  come  with  me  to  the  patio  of  the 
Mosque  Bayazid — the  Pigeon  Mosque. 
190 


UNDER  THE  MINARETS 

Isaac  Isaacs,  dragoman,  stands  at  its  door, 
with  one  hand  over  his  heart,  the  other  raised 
aloft,  invoking  the  condemnation  of  the  gods  if 
he  lies.  In  his  earnestness  he  is  pushing  back 
his  fez,  disclosing  an  ugly  old  scar  in  his  wrin- 
kled, leathery  forehead,  a  sabre  cut,  he  tells 
me,  in  a  burst  of  confidence,  won  in  the  last 
row  with  Russia.  His  black  beard  is  shaking 
like  a  goat's,  while  his  hands,  with  upturned 
palms  and  thumbs,  touch  his  shoulders  with  the 
old  wavy  motion  common  to  his  race.  Standing 
now  in  the  shadow  of  the  archway,  he  insists 
that  no  unbeliever  is  ever  permitted  to  make 
pictures  in  the  patio,  where  flows  the  sacred 
fountain,  and  where  the  priests  and  faithful 
wash  their  feet  before  entering  the  holy  temple. 

I  had  heard  something  like  this  before.  The 
idlers  at  Florian's  had  all  said  so ;  an  intelli- 
gent Greek  merchant  whom  I  met  on  the  train 
had  been  sure  of  it ;  and  even  the  clerk  of  the 
Royal  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  thought  I  had 
better  not. 

All  this  time  —  Isaac  still  invoking  new  gods 
—  I  was  gazing  into  the  most  beautiful  patio 
along  the  Golden  Horn,  feasting  my  eyes  on 
columns  of  verd  antique  supporting  arches  light 
as  rainbows. 

Crossing  the  threshold,  I  dropped  my  trap 
191 


UNDER  THE  MINARETS 

behind  a  protecting  column,  and  ran  my  eye 
around  the  Moorish  square.  The  sun  blazed 
down  on  glistening  marbles;  gnarled  old  ce- 
dars twisted  themselves  upward  against  the 
sky  ;  flocks  of  pigeons  whirled  and  swooped  and 
fell  in  showers  on  cornice,  roof,  and  dome  ;  and 
tall  minarets,  like  shafts  of  light,  shot  up  into 
the  blue.  Scattered  over  the  uneven  pavement, 
patched  with  strips  and  squares  of  shadows, 
lounged  groups  of  priests  in  bewildering  robes  of 
mauve,  corn-yellow,  white,  and  sea-green,  while 
back  beneath  the  cool  arches  bunches  of  natives 
listlessly  pursued  their  several  avocations. 

It  was  a  sight  that  brought  the  blood  with  a 
rush  to  my  cheek.  Here  at  last  was  the  East, 
the  land  of  my  dreams  !  That  swarthy  Mussul- 
man at  his  little  square  table  mending  seals  ; 
that  fellow  next  him  selling  herbs,  sprawled 
out  on  the  marble  floor,  too  lazy  to  crawl  away 
from  the  slant  of  the  sunshine  slipping  through 
the  ragged  awning  ;  and  that  young  Turk  in 
frayed  and  soiled  embroidered  jacket,  holding  up 
strings  of  beads  to  the  priests  passing  in  and  out, 
—  had  1  not  seen  them  over  and  over  again  ? 

And  the  old  public  scribe  with  the  gray  beard 
and  white  turban,  writing  letters,  the  motion- 
less veiled  figures  squatting  around  him,  was 
he  not  Baba  Mustapha,  and  the  soft-eyed  girl 
192 


UNDER  THE  MINARETS 

whispering  into  his  ear,  none  other  than  Mor- 
giana,  "  fair  as  the  meridian  sun  "  ? 

Was  I  to  devour  all  this  with  my  eyes,  and 
fill  my  soul  with  its  beauty,  and  take  nothing 
away  ?  My  mind  was  made  up  the  moment  I 
looked  into  the  old  scribe's  face.  Once  get  the 
confidence  of  this  secret  repository  of  half  the 
love-making  and  intrigue  in  Stamboul,  and  I  was 
safe. 

"  Isaac !  " 

"Yes,  effendi." 

"  Do  you  know  the  scribe  ?  " 

Isaac  advanced  a  step,  scrutinized  the  old 
patriarch  for  a  moment,  and  replied,  — 

"  Effendi,  pardonnez,  he  the  one  only  man 
in  Stamboul  I  not  know." 

This  time,  I  noticed,  he  omitted  the  invoca- 
tion to  the  gods. 

"Then  I  Ml  present  you." 

I  waited  until  the  scribe  looked  up  and  caught 
my  eye.  Then  I  bowed  my  head  reverently, 
and  gave  him  the  Turkish  salute.  It  is  a  most 
respectful  salutation.  You  stoop  to  the  ground, 
pick  up  an  imaginary  handful  of  dust,  press  it 
to  your  heart,  lips,  and  forehead,  in  token  of 
your  sincerity  and  esteem,  and  then  scatter  it 
to  the  four  winds  of  heaven.  Rapidly  done,  it 
looks  like  brushing  off  a  fly. 
193 


UNDER  THE  MINARETS 

The  old  scribe  arose  with  the  dignity  of  King 
Solomon  —  1  am  quite  sure  he  looked  like  him 
—  and  offered  me  his  own  straw-thatched  stool. 
I  accepted  it  gravely,  and  opened  my  cigarette 
case. 

He  unseated  a  client,  dismissed  his  business 
for  the  day,  and  sat  down  beside  me.  Then, 
Isaac  interpreting,  I  turned  my  sketch-book  leaf 
by  leaf,  showing  bits  of  Venice,  and  in  the  back 
of  the  book  some  tall  minarets  of  an  old  mosque 
caught  on  my  way  through  Bulgaria. 

It  was  curious  to  watch  his  face  as  the  drago- 
man located  for  him  the  several  scraps  and  blots, 
and  explained  their  meaning.  He  evidently  had 
never  seen  their  like  before.  When  he  came  to 
the  minaret,  his  eye  brightened,  and  pointing 
upward  to  the  one  above  our  heads,  he  drew 
an  imaginary  outline  with  his  hand,  and  pointed 
to  me.  I  nodded  my  head.  At  this  he  looked 
grave,  and  I  forthwith  sent  Isaac  for  coffee,  and 
lighted  another  cigarette.  Before  the  cups  were 
emptied  I  had  formally  and  with  great  cere- 
mony asked  and  received  permission  to  paint 
the  most  sacred  patio,  Isaac  protesting  all  the 
time  in  high  dudgeon  as  he  unbuckled  my  trap, 
that  the  scribe  was  a  common  pauper,  earning 
but  a  spoonful  of  copper  coin  in  a  day,  with  no 
more  right  to  grant  me  a  permit  than  the  flea- 
194 


UNDER  THE  MINARETS 

bitten  beggar  at  the  gate.  It  was  evident  that 
Isaac  had  not  come  to  Constantinople  to  paint. 

Half  an  hour  later  the  arches  were  sketched 
in,  the  pillars  and  roof  line  complete,  and  I  was 
rapidly  nearing  that  part  of  my  work  in  which 
the  pencil  is  exchanged  for  the  palette,  when 
the  shrill  voice  of  the  muezzin  calling  the  faith- 
ful to  prayer  sounded  above  my  head.  I  could 
see  his  little  white  dot  of  a  turban  bobbing  away 
high  above  me  on  the  minaret,  his  blue  robe 
waving  in  the  soft  air. 

In  an  instant  priests,  seal-maker,  herb  doctor, 
and  pedler,  crowded  about  the  fountain,  washed 
their  faces  and  feet,  and  moved  silently  and 
reverently  into  the  mosque.  Soon  the  patio  was 
deserted  by  all  except  Isaac,  the  pigeons,  and 
the  scribe, — the  kindly  old  scribe, — who  re- 
mained glued  to  his  seat,  lost  in  wonder. 

Another  hour,  and  the  worshippers  came 
straggling  back,  resuming  their  several  avoca- 
tions. Last  of  all  came  the  priests,  in  groups  of 
eight  or  ten,  flashing  masses  of  color  as  they 
stepped  out  of  the  cool  arches  into  the  blinding 
sunlight.  They  approached  my  easel  with  that 
easy  rhythmic  movement,  so  gracefully  accentu- 
ated by  their  flowing  robes,  stopped  short,  and 
silently  grouped  themselves  about  me.  I  had 
now  the  creamy  white  of  the  minaret  sharp 

195 


UNDER  THE  MINARETS 

against  the  blue,  and  the  entrance  of  the  mosque 
in  clear  relief. 

For  an  instant  there  was  a  hurried  consulta- 
tion. Then  a  beardless  young  priest  courteously 
but  firmly  expounded  to  Isaac  some  of  the  fun- 
damental doctrines  of  the  Mohammedan  faith, 
—  this  one  in  particular:  "Thou  shalt  not 
paint." 

Before  I  could  call  to  Isaac,  I  felt  a  hand 
caress  my  shoulder,  and  raised  my  head.  The 
scribe,  with  faded  robe  gathered  about  him, 
stood  gazing  into  the  face  of  the  speaker.  1 
held  my  breath,  wondering  whether,  after  all, 
I  had  left  San  Marco  in  vain.  Isaac  remained 
mute,  a  half-triumphant  "  I  told  you  so  "  ex- 
pression lighting  up  his  face. 

Then  the  old  scribe  waved  Isaac  aside,  and, 
drawing  himself  to  his  full  height,  his  long  beard 
blending  with  his  white  robe,  answered  in  his 
stead.  "  I  have  given  my  word  to  the  Frank. 
He  is  not  a  giaour,  but  a  true  Moslem,  a  holy 
man,  who  loves  our  temple.  I  have  broken 
bread  with  him.  He  is  my  friend,  bone  of  my 
bone,  blood  of  my  blood.  You  cannot  drive  him 
away." 

After  that,  painting  about  Constantinople  be- 
came quite  easy.  Perhaps  the  priests  told  it  to 
their  fellow  priests,  who  spread  it  abroad  among 
196 


UNDER  THE  MINARETS 

the  faithful  in  the  mosques ;  perhaps  the  gos- 
sips around  the  patio  took  it  up,  or  the  good 
scribe  whispered  it  into  the  veiled  ear  of  his  next 
fair  client,  and  so  gave  it  wings.  How  it  hap- 
pened, I  know  not ;  but  from  that  day  my  white 
umbrella  became  a  banner  of  peace,  and  my 
open  sketch-book  a  passport  to  everybody's 
courtesy  and  everybody's  good  will. 

Let  me  remind  those  who  may  have  forgot- 
ten it  that  there  is  really  no  such  place  as  Con- 
stantinople. There  is,  of  course,  the  old  Turk- 
ish city  of  Stamboul,  with  all  the  great  mosques : 
the  mosque  of  the  Six  Minarets,  the  Sultana 
Valede,  Soliman,  and  some  hundred  others, 
and  where,  moreover,  one  finds  the  great  ba- 
zaar —  twelve  miles  of  arcaded  streets  in  a  tan- 
gle—  the  cafes,  drug-markets,  fish-markets, 
spice-markets,  vile-smelling,  dirt-choked  alleys 
and  baths. 

Then  there  is  the  European  city  of  Pera,  up 
a  hill, — a  long  way  up, — with  its  modern 
tramway  below,  and  the  ancient  tower  of  the 
Genoise  crowning  the  top.  Pera,  rebuilt  since 
the  fire,  with  its  new  hotels  and  foreign  embas- 
sies, its  modern  shops  filled  with  machine-made 
Oriental  embroideries,  and  its  more  modern 
streets  flanked  by  the  everlasting  four-story 
197 


UNDER  THE  MINARETS 

house  with  the  flat  roof  and  balcony,  and  the 
same  old  cast-iron  railings  and  half-dead  potted 
plants.  Pera,  the  commonplace,  except,  per- 
haps, for  one  delightfully  picturesque  old  cem- 
etery with  its  curious  headstones  and  dismal 
cypresses  which  could  not  be  burned,  and  so 
could  not  be  rebuilt  and  ruined. 

And  last,  across  the  Bosporus,  is  Scutari, 
only  ten  minutes  by  ferry-boat.  Scutari-in-Asia, 
with  mosques,  archways,  palaces,  seraglios, 
fruit-markets,  Arab  horses,  priests,  eunuchs 
with  bevies  of  houris  out  for  an  airing,  gay  awn- 
ings, silks  in  festoons  from  shop  doors,  streets 
crowded  with  carnival-like  people  wearing  every 
color  under  the  sun,  Bedouins  on  horseback  rid- 
ing rapidly  through  narrow  streets,  tons  and  tons 
of  grapes  piled  up  in  baskets,  soldiers  in  fez  and 
brown  linen  suits,  —  everything  that  is  foreign 
and  un-European,  and  out  of  the  common  world. 
A  bewildering,  overwhelming,  intoxicating  sight 
to  a  man  who  has  travelled  one  half  the  world 
over  to  find  the  picturesque,  and  who  suddenly 
comes  upon  all  there  is  in  the  other  half,  crammed 
into  one  compact  mass  a  mile  square. 

Isaac  never  quite  understands  why  I  go  about 
absorbed  in  these  things,  and  why  I  ignore  the 
regulation  sights,  —  the  mosque  with  the  Per- 
sian tiles,  three  miles  away  and  a  carriage; 
198 


UNDER  THE  MINARETS 

the  treasury  at  Seraglio  Point,  opened  only  by 
permit  from  the  Grand  Vizier  (price  £2)  ;  the 
dancing  dervishes  at  Pera ;  the  howling  der- 
vishes at  Scutari ;  and  the  identical  spot  where 
Leander  plunged  into  the  sea. 

I  finally  compromised  with  Isaac  on  the  der- 
vishes. We  had  spent  the  morning  at  Scutari, 
where  I  had  been  painting  an  old  mosque.  It 
was  howling-dervish  day,  —  it  comes  but  once 
a  week,  the  howl  beginning  at  three  P.  M.  pre- 
cisely,—  and  to  satisfy  Isaac  I  had  left  the 
sunshine  for  an  hour  to  watch  their  curious 
service. 

I  had,  it  is  proper  to  state,  wrung  a  confes- 
sion that  morning  from  Isaac  which  had  so 
humiliated  him  that  he  had  suggested  the  der- 
vishes to  divert  my  attention.  A  dragoman  of 
the  opposition,  a  veritable  son  of  Abraham,  had 
betrayed  him.  He  had  bitten  his  thumb  at  him, 
not  literally  but  figuratively,  and  this  in  very  de- 
cent English  —  no,  the  reverse.  He  had  charged 
him  with  fraud.  He  had  said  that  his  name  was 
not  Isaac  Isaacs,  but  Yapouly  —  Dreco  Yapouly  ; 
that  he  was  not  an  honest  Jew,  but  a  dog  of 
a  Turk,  who  had  stolen  honest  Isaac's  name 
when  he  died.  Yes,  robbed  him,  ghoul,  grave- 
digger,  beast !  He  with  a  scar  on  his  forehead, 
where  he  had  been  branded  for  theft !  And  here 
199 


UNDER  THE  MINARETS 

the  opposition  dragoman  snatched  Isaac's  fez 
from  his  head,  and  ground  it  into  the  dirt  with 
his  heel. 

After  a  gendarme  had  taken  this  very  dis- 
agreeable opposition  dragoman  away,  Isaac  had 
confessed.  So  many  Englishmen,  Frenchmen, 
Americans,  he  said,  had  wanted  Mr.  Isaacs  that 
he  had  concluded  that  it  was  cruel  not  to  ac- 
commodate them.  Of  what  use,  estimable  ef- 
fendi,  was  a  dead  Jew  ?  How  infinitely  better 
a  live  Turk !  So  one  day,  when  hanging  over 
the  rail  at  the  station,  an  Englishman  had  ar- 
rived holding  the  deceased  Isaac's  card  in  his 
hand,  and  since  that  time  Yapouly  had  been 
Isaac  Isaacs  to  the  stranger  and  the  wayfaring 
man.  "  See,  effendi,  here  the  Angleeshman 
card." 

It  was  the  same  the  rascal  had  pressed  into 
my  own  face ! 

Thus  it  was  that  Dreco  Yapouly  Isaacs  —  I 
will  no  longer  lend  myself  to  his  villanous  de- 
ception —  preceded  me  this  day  up  a  steep  hill 
paved  with  boulders,  entered  the  low  door  of 
the  tekke  (house)  of  the  dervishes,  and  mo- 
tioned me  to  a  seat  in  a  small  open  court  shel- 
tered by  an  arbor  covered  with  vines. 

In  the  centre  was  a  well,  flagged  by  a  great 
stone,  and  on  this  rested  a  high,  narrow-necked 
200 


UNDER  THE  MINARETS 

silver  pitcher  of  perfect  Oriental  shape  used  by 
the  priests  in  their  ablutions.  At  the  door  of  the 
sacred  room  stood  a  stalwart  Nubian  dressed  in 
pure  white  —  ten  times  as  black  by  contrast. 

Five  francs,  and  we  passed  the  hanging  cur- 
tain covering  the  entrance,  and  stepped  inside 
a  square,  low-ceiled  room  hung  with  tambour- 
ines, cymbals,  arms,  and  banners,  and  sur- 
rounded on  three  sides  by  an  aisle. 

The  howlers  —  there  were  at  least  a  dozen  — 
were  standing  in  a  straight  row  on  the  floor, 
like  a  class  at  school,  facing  their  master,  an 
old,  long-bearded  priest  squatting  on  a  mat  be- 
fore the  altar. 

As  we  entered,  they  were  wagging  their 
heads  in  unison,  keeping  time  to  a  chant  mono- 
toned by  the  old  priest.  They  were  of  all  ages ; 
fat  and  lean,  smooth-shaven  and  bearded  ;  some 
in  rich  garments,  others  in  more  sombre  and 
cheaper  stuffs. 

One  face  cut  itself  into  my  memory,  —  that 
of  a  handsome,  clear-skinned  young  man,  with 
deep,  intense  eyes  and  a  sinewy,  graceful  body. 
On  one  of  his  delicate,  lady-white  hands  was  a 
large  turquoise  ring.  Yapouly  whispered  to  me 
that  he  was  the  son  of  the  high  priest,  and 
would  succeed  his  father  when  the  old  man 
died. 

2OI 


UNDER  THE  MINARETS 

The  chant  continued,  rising  in  volume  and 
intensity,  and  a  Nubian  in  white  handed  each 
man  a  black  skull-cap.  These  they  drew  tightly 
over  their  perspiring  heads. 

The  movement,  which  had  begun  with  the 
slow  rolling  of  their  heads,  now  extended  to 
their  bodies.  They  writhed  and  twisted  as  if  in 
agony,  —  a  row  of  black-capped  felons  sus- 
pended from  unseen  ropes. 

Suddenly  there  darted  out  upon  the  mats  a 
boy  scarce  ten  years  of  age,  spinning  like  a  top, 
his  skirts  level  with  his  hands. 

The  chant  broke  into  a  wail,  the  audience 
joining  in.  The  howls  were  deafening.  The 
priest  rose  from  the  mats  by  the  altar,  slowly 
waved  his  hands,  and  began  moving  around  the 
room, the  worshippers  reaching  forward  and  kiss- 
ing the  hem  of  his  robe.  As  he  passed,  each 
dervish  stepped  one  pace  forward,  and  handed 
his  outer  robe  to  the  Nubian,  who  piled  them 
on  the  floor  in  front  of  the  altar. 

The  twelve  were  now  rocking  their  heads  in 
a  wild  frenzy,  groaning  in  long  subdued  moans, 
ending  in  a  peculiar  "  hough,"  like  the  sound  of 
a  dozen  distant  locomotives  tugging  up  a  steep 
grade. 

"  Allah,  hou  !  Allah,  hou  !  Allah,  hou  !  "  — 
the  last  word  expelled  with  a  jerk.  Their  eyes 
202 


UNDER  THE  MINARETS 

were  starting  from  their  heads,  their  parched 
tongues  hanging  out,  the  sweat  pouring  from 
their  faces.  The  young  priest  was  livid,  with 
eyes  closed,  —  his  body  swaying  uneasily. 

A  dozen  little  children  were  here  handed  over 
the  rail  to  the  Nubian,  who  took  them  in  his 
arms  and  laid  them  in  a  row  with  their  faces 
flattened  to  the  mats.  The  old  priest  advanced 
within  a  step  of  the  first  child,  his  lips  moving 
in  prayer,  and  stretched  his  arms  above  the 
motionless  line  of  fat,  chubby  little  bodies. 

Yapouly  Isaacs  leaned  over  and  whispered, 
"  See,  now  he  bless  them." 

1  raised  myself  on  my  feet,  to  see  the  better. 
The  Nubian  held  out  his  hand  to  the  old  priest, 
who  balanced  himself  for  a  moment,  stepped 
firmly  upon  the  first  child,  his  bare  feet  sinking 
into  its  soft,  yielding  flesh,  and  then  walked 
deliberately  across  the  row  of  prostrate  children. 
As  he  passed,  each  little  tot  raised  its  head, 
watched  until  the  last  child  had  been  trampled 
upon,  then  sprang  up,  kissed  the  old  priest's 
robe,  and  ran  laughing  from  the  room. 

The  sight  now  was  sickening  ;  the  dervishes 
were  in  the  last  stages  of  exhausted  frenzy. 
The  once  handsome  young  priest  was  ghastly, 
frothing  at  the  mouth,  only  the  whites  of  his 
eyes  visible,  —  his  voice  was  thick,  his  breath 
203 


UNDER  THE  MINARETS 

almost  gone.  The  others  were  drooping,  with 
knees  bent,  hardly  able  to  stand. 

Suddenly  the  priest  turned  his  back,  prostrated 
himself  before  the  altar,  and  prayed  silently. 
The  whirling  child  sank  to  the  ground.  The 
line  of  dervishes  grew  still,  tottered  along  the 
floor,  clutched  at  the  hanging  curtain,  and  stag- 
gered into  the  sunlight. 

1  forced  my  way  along  the  closely  packed 
aisle,  and  rushed  into  the  open  air.  The  sight 
that  met  my  eye  stunned  me  ;  my  breath 
stopped  short.  In  the  midst  of  the  court  stood 
the  Nubian  serving  coffee,  the  howlers  crowding 
about  him,  clamoring  for  cups,  and  panting  for 
breath  like  a  team  of  athletes  in  from  a  foot- 
race. I  looked  for  my  young  priest  with  the 
turquoise  ring.  He  was  sitting  on  a  bench,  roll- 
ing a  cigarette,  his  face  wreathed  with  smiles  ! 

And  yet  the  Mohammedan  priest,  despite  his 
fanaticism,  is  really  a  most  delightful  compan- 
ion. His  tastes  are  refined,  his  garments  spot- 
less, his  manners  easy  and  graceful,  and  his 
whole  bearing  distinguished  by  a  repose  that  is 
superb,  —  the  repose  of  unlimited  idleness  dig- 
nified by  unquestioned  religious  authority. 

I  remember  one  in  particular  who  spent  a 
morning  with  me,  —  a  noble  old  patriarch, 
204 


UNDER  THE  MINARETS 

dressed  in  a  delicate  eggshell-colored  robe  that 
floated  about  his  feet  as  he  walked,  an  under- 
garment of  mauve,  with  waist  sash  of  pale  blue, 
and  a  snowdrift  of  silk  on  his  head.  For  four 
broiling  hours,  with  only  such  shade  as  a  half- 
withered  plane-tree  could  afford,  did  this  majes- 
tic old  fellow,  with  slippers  tucked  under  him, 
sit  and  drink  in  every  movement  of  my  brush. 
When  I  had  finished,  he  arose,  saluted  me  after 
the  manner  of  his  race,  and  pointing  first  to 
the  sketch,  and  then  to  the  glistening  mosque, 
said,  in  the  softest  of  voices,  — 

"  Good  dragoman,  tell  your  master  I  have 
for  him  a  very  great  respect.  He  has  opened 
my  eyes  to  many  beautiful  things.  I  am  sure 
he  is  a  most  learned  man,"  and  passed  on  with 
the  dignity  and  composure  of  a  Doge. 

Everywhere  else  did  I  find  this  same  sponta- 
neous, generous  courtesy  and  kindly  good-hu- 
mor. Only  once  was  I  rebuffed.  It  was  in  the 
open  plaza  of  the  Valede.  I  had  been  watching 
the  shifting  scene,  following  eagerly  the  little 
dabs  of  color  hurrying  over  the  heated  pave- 
ment, when  my  eye  fell  upon  a  cobbler  but  a 
few  yards  off,  pegging  away  at  an  upturned 
shoe.  When  my  restless  pencil  had  fastened 
his  fez  upon  his  head,  and  linked  his  body  to 
his  three-legged  stool,  a  laugh  broke  out  among 
205 


UNDER  THE  MINARETS 

the  bystanders  crowded  about  me,  one  jovial 
old  Turk  calling  out  to  the  unconscious  model. 
In  a  moment  he  was  on  his  feet,  forcing  his 
way  through  the  throng  behind  me.  Then  a 
hand  clutched  my  shoulder,  and  the  next  in- 
stant a  wet  leather  sole  was  thrust  forward  and 
ground  into  my  paper,  spoiling  the  sketch. 

It  took  five  minutes  of  my  most  subtle  Ori- 
ental diplomacy,  sweetened  with  several  cups 
of  the  choicest  Turkish  coffee,  to  convince  this 
indignant  shoemaker  that  I  meant  no  offence. 
When  I  had  succeeded,  he  was  so  profuse  in  his 
apologies  that  I  had  to  smoke  a  chibouque  with 
him,  at  his  expense,  to  restore  his  equanimity. 

And  yet,  under  all  the  courtesy  and  good- 
nature I  found  everywhere,  1  could  not  help 
noticing  that  a  certain  disquiet  and  nervous 
fear  permeated  all  classes,  —  priests  and  peo- 
ple alike.  The  government's  extreme  poverty 
and  constant  watchfulness  are  two  things  the 
inhabitant  never  forgets,  —  one  concerns  his 
taxes,  the  other  his  liberty.  This  fear  is  so 
great  that  many  public  topics  worn  threadbare 
by  most  Europeans  are  never  whispered  by  a 
Turk  to  his  most  intimate  friend.  Even  my 
dear  friend  and  confidential  adviser,  Mr.  Ya- 
pouly,  finds  now  and  then  a  subject  upon  which 
he  is  silent.  One  day  I  asked  him  who  had 
206 


UNDER  THE  MINARETS 

been  suspected  of  murdering  the  predecessor  of 
the  present  Sultan,  and  why  it  had  been  thought 
necessary  to  remove  that  luxurious  son  of  the 
Prophet.  It  was  an  idle  question  on  my  part, 
and  one  I  supposed  anybody  in  Constantinople 
could  answer,  especially  so  learned  and  versa- 
tile a  dragoman  as  Mr.  Yapouly.  To  my  sur- 
prise he  made  no  reply  ;  we  were  in  Pera  at  the 
time,  he  preceding  me  with  the  trap.  When 
we  reached  the  long  cemetery,  he  stopped, 
looked  carefully  over  the  low  wall,  as  if  fearing 
the  very  graves,  and  then  said,  in  his  broken 
conglomerate,  too  shattered  to  reproduce  here  : 

"  Effendi,  you  must  not  ask  such  questions. 
Everybody  is  a  spy,  —  the  man  asleep  on  the 
sofa  in  the  hotel,  the  waiter  behind  your  chair, 
the  barber  who  shaves  you.  Some  night  your 
bed  will  be  empty.  Nobody  ever  asks  such 
questions  in  Constantinople." 

Nor  is  this  unrest  confined  to  the  people.  I 
noticed  the  same  anxious  look  on  the  Sultan's 
face  the  day  of  the  salemlik,  the  day  he  drives 
publicly  to  the  little  mosque  to  pray, the  mosque 
outside  the  palace  gates.  His  face  was  like  that 
of  the  acrobat  riding  bareback  at  the  circus  hoop 
—  glad  to  be  through. 

But  I  am  in  Constantinople  to  paint,  not  to 
moralize,  and  these  glimpses  of  the  treacherous 
207 


UNDER  THE  MINARETS 

deadly  stream  that  flows  beneath  Turkish 
life  are  not  to  my  liking.  I  want  only  the  gay 
flowers  above  its  banks  and  the  soft  summer 
air  on  my  cheek,  the  tall  grasses  waving  in  the 
sunlight,  and  the  glow  and  radiance  of  it  all. 
So,  if  you  please,  we  will  go  back  to  my  mosque, 
and  my  delightful  old  priests,  and  the  Greek 
who  sells  me  grapes  and  weighs  them  in  a  pair 
of  teetering  scales,  and  my  ca'ique  with  the  pew 
cushion  over  the  bottom,  and  the  big  caikjis, 
with  the  chest  of  a  Hercules  and  the  legs  of 
a  satyr,  who  rows  my  Oriental  gondola,  and 
all  the  beautiful  patches  of  color,  fretted  arch, 
and  slender  column  that  make  life  enchant- 
ing in  this  lotus-eating  land  ;  and  even  to 
Mr.  Yapouly,  Mr.  Dreco  Yapouly,  who  tells 
me  he  has  reformed,  and  will  never  lie  more, 
"so  help  him," — Mr.  Dreco  Isaacs  Yapouly, 
who  has  lately  ceased  his  unanswered  appeals 
to  the  gods,  and  who  has  left  off  all  his  evil 
ways. 

But  then  I  remember  that  I  cannot  go  back 
to  my  old  life  now,  for  the  summer  is  ended. 
Last  night  there  was  a  great  storm  of  wind  and 
a  deluge  of  rain,  the  first  for  four  months.  All 
the  gold-dust  has  been  washed  from  the  trees 
and  the  grasses.  The  plaza  of  the  Valede  is 
scoured  clean.  The  little  waves  around  the 
208 


UNDER  THE  MINARETS 

Galata  no  longer  lap  their  tongues  indolently 
about  the  soggy,  rotten  floats,  but  snap  angrily 
in  the  bleak  wind.  The  doors  of  the  mosques 
are  closed,  and  outside,  in  the  early  morning, 
groups  of  natives  are  huddled  over  charcoal 
pans.  The  winter  is  creeping  on  apace,  and  I 
must  be  gone.  Besides,  they  are  waiting  for 
me  at  Florian's  on  the  Piazza  in  my  beloved 
Venice ;  those  scoffers  with  their  cerise  and 
Chianti  and  grandi  of  Munich  beer.  Waiting, 
not  to  mock,  but  to  kotow,  to  bend  the  ear  and 
genuflect,  now  that  my  portfolio  is  bursting, 
and  to  say,  "Come,  let  us  see  your  stuff!  " 
and  "  How  the  devil  did  you  get  away  with  so 
much  ?  " 

So  one  morning  I  tell  Isaac  to  pack  my  trap, 
and  this  time  to  slip  it  inside  its  leather  travel- 
ling-case, and  to  get  me  a  "  hamal,"  a  human 
burro  —  an  Armenian,  perhaps  —  who  will  toss 
my  trunk,  with  the  extra  canvases  now  all 
filled,  upon  his  back,  and  never  break  trot  un- 
til he  dumps  it  at  the  station  two  miles  away. 

I  instantly  detect,  in  spite  of  our  close  inti- 
macy, an  expression  of  relief  wrinkling  Mr.  Ya- 
pouly's  tobacco-colored  countenance.  He  sighs 
his  regrets,  but  with  a  lightness  that  shows  his 
heart  is  not  in  them.  He  has  been  but  a  "  ha- 
mal "  himself,  he  thinks,  lugging  the  trap  about 
209 


UNDER  THE  MINARETS 

in  the  heat,  and  sitting  for  hours  doing  nothing 
—  absolutely  nothing.  And  I  have  bought  so 
little  in  the  bazaars,  and  his  commissions  are  so 
small !  But  then,  as  he  reflects,  is  he  not  the 
dragoman  of  dragomans,  and  might  not  future 
wayfarers  be  my  intimate  friends  and  his  special 
prey  ?  So  he  becomes  doubly  solicitous  as  the 
time  draws  near.  Would  effendi  allow  him  to 
place  a  few  pounds  of  grapes  in  the  compart- 
ment, the  road  to  Philippopolis  is  so  dusty  and 
the  water  is  so  bad  ?  Had  not  the  umbrella 
better  go  above,  and  the  rugs  on  the  other 
seat  ? 

Last  of  all,  with  a  certain  tenderness  that  he 
knows  will  appeal  to  me,  where  will  the  most 
gracious  effendi  permit  him  to  place  the  dear  old 
trap,  my  companion  over  so  many  thousand 
miles  of  travel  ?  At  my  feet  ?.  No ;  on  the  cush- 
ion beside  me  ! 

The  guard  blows  his  whistle  ;  the  carriage 
doors  are  locked.  Yapouly — Dreco  Yapouly, 
the  reformed — leans  outside.  I  move  to  the  win- 
dow for  a  parting  word.  After  all,  I  may  have 
misjudged  him.  He  starts  forward,  and  presses 
some  cards  into  my  hand. 

"  For  your  friends,  effendi,  when  they  want 
good  dragoman." 

I  turn  up  their  white  faces. 

2IO 


UNDER  THE  MINARETS 

They  are  clean  and  newly  printed,  and  bear 
this  inscription :  — 

ISAAC  ISAACS, 
Dragoman  and  Interpreter, 

Constantinople. 


211 


A    PERSONALLY   CONDUCTED  ARREST 
IN  CONSTANTINOPLE 

1 

CAS1MIR,  lifting  his  hat  from  his  glistening 
head,  said,  with  a  bow  of  apology,  that 
I  could  not  paint  —  in  Constantinople,  of  course  ; 
that  "  one  udder  Engleesh  wait  one,  two,  four 
week,  and  t'en  go  'way  wit'out  permit.  One 
Russian  have  his  machine  take*  away.  No, 
effendi,"  he  added  ;  "  I  ver'  sorry,  but  it  eem- 
possible  to  make  t'e  picture." 

"  How  about  an  American  ?"  I  asked. 

"  Ah !  you  not  Engleesh  ?  You  American  ? 
T'at  is  anudder  t'ing.  I  make  pardon,"  with 
another  sweep  of  his  hat.  "  I  t'ink  you  Eng- 
leesh." Then,  behind  his  hand,  in  a  whisper, 
"  Engleesh  all  time  make  trouble." 

The  lowered  voice  and  furtive  glance  for  pos- 
sible Britishers  in  disguise  revealed  like  a  flash- 
light all  the  devious  ways  and  manifold  crooked- 
nesses of  the  tourist-dragoman  of  the  East,  — 
your  servant  to-day,  serving  you  servilely  and 

212 


A  PERSONALLY  CONDUCTED  ARREST 

vilely ;  somebody  else's  to-morrow,  still  servile 
and  vile. 

The  clerk  of  the  hotel  agreed  with  Casimir  as 
to  my  painting  —  in  the  streets.  So  did  the 
banker  who  cashed  my  first  draft. 

The  banker,  however,  was  more  lucid.  In 
the  present  condition  of  the  Armenian  question, 
he  said,  an  order  had  been  issued  from  the  pal- 
ace forbidding  any  one  to  reproduce  a  likeness 
of  anything  living  or  dead,  from  a  camel  to  a 
mosque.  Special  terms  of  imprisonment  were 
provided  for  those  bold  enough  to  outline  such 
persons  as  carried  guns.  Five  years  was  the 
penalty  for  sketching  a  fort ;  and  the  bowstring 
or  a  double-shotted  bag  and  the  Bosporus  for 
transferring  to  paper  the  image  of  a  man-of-war 
or  a  torpedo-boat. 

1  had  heard  threats  like  these  before,  not 
only  here,  but  in  other  parts  of  the  world.  I  had 
been  warned  in  Cuba,  watched  night  and  day  in 
Bulgaria,  and  locked  up  in  Spain  ;  and  yet, 
somehow,  I  had  always  kept  successfully  at 
work,  buoyed  by  the  hope  that  a  quiet  manner, 
a  firm  persistence,  and  inherent  invincible  hon- 
esty would  carry  me  through. 

I  accordingly  opened  my  white  umbrella  and 
paint-box  the  following  morning  in  front  of  the 
Sultana  Yalide  Mosque. 
213 


A  PERSONALLY  CONDUCTED  ARREST 

Casimir  protested  with  hands  aloft  and  with 
streaming  face,  a  red  silk  handkerchief  dam- 
ming the  flow  near  the  chin-line.  He  begged 
me  to  go  at  once  to  the  chief  of  police  with  him 
for  a  permit,  insisting  that  if  I  were  caught  we 
should  both  be  put  under  lock  and  key,  and 
disporting  himself  generally  after  the  manner 
of  his  guild,  —  one  moment  with  vehemence, 
the  next  with  dove-like  gentleness.  Moreover, 
under  all  his  boasts  and  predictions  I  detected 
a  genuine  fear  of  the  guardians  of  the  peace,  and 
a  fixed  determination,  so  far  as  he  himself  was 
concerned,  to  keep  out  of  their  clutches.  This, 
together  with  his  desire  at  all  hazards  to  earn 
my  five  francs  a  day,  made  Casimir  a  very 
nervous  and  for  the  time  being  a  very  uncom- 
fortable personage. 

I  selected  for  my  first  sketch  the  open  plaza 
fronting  the  Sultana  Valide,  because  it  was  a 
blossoming  field  of  giant  umbrellas,  green,  brown, 
and  white,  beneath  which  were  sold  stuffs  and 
fruits  of  every  hue  in  the  rainbow,  and  because 
I  thought  that  my  own  modest  and  diminutive 
sunshade  might  be  so  lost  in  the  general  scheme 
as  to  be  undistinguishable. 

The  population  of  that  part  of  Stamboul 
thought  otherwise. 

Before  I  had  half  blocked  in  one  corner  of 
214 


IN  CONSTANTINOPLE 

the  mosque  and  indicated  my  high  lights  and 
shadows,  a  surging  throng  of  Turks,  Greeks, 
Jews,  Gentiles,  and  Hottentots  —  unquestion- 
ably Hottentots,  for  some  were  as  black  as 
coal  —  had  wedged  themselves  in  a  solid  mass 
about  my  easel. 

Casimir  shrugged  his  shoulders,  throwing  his 
eyes  skyward,  his  mouth  open  like  that  of  a 
choking  chicken.  He  had  consented,  under  pro- 
test, to  carry  my  sketching  outfit  across  the 
Galata  Bridge,  handling  it  as  tenderly  as  if  it 
had  been  a  bomb  ;  and  now  that  it  was  about 
to  explode  he  wished  it  distinctly  understood  by 
the  bystanders  that  the  affair  was  none  of  his 
doing.  I  endured  this  for  a  while,  catching  now 
and  then  his  whispered  word  dropped  in  the  ear 
of  an  eager  looker-on,  and  then  called  out,  — 

"  Here,  Casimir !  Don't  stand  there  para- 
lyzed. Clear  the  crowd  in  front,  so  that  I  can 
see  the  steps  of  the  mosque,  and  then  go  over 
to  the  fountain  opposite  and  fill  this  water-bot- 
tle." 

He  obeyed  mechanically.  There  was  an  open- 
ing of  the  crowd  for  a  moment  as  he  passed,  a 
tight  closing  up  again,  and  the  curious  mob  was 
thicker  than  ever. 

When  he  returned  he  brought  with  him 
two  full  hands.  One  was  his  own,  holding  the 
215 


A  PERSONALLY  CONDUCTED  ARREST 

bottle  ;  the  other  was  that  of  a  gendarme  hold- 
ing Casimir. 

The  crowd  in  front  melted  away,  and  the 
pair  stood  before  me. 

He  was  a  small  gendarme,  topped  with  a  fez, 
girded  with  a  belt,  armed  with  a  sword,  and 
incrusted  with  buttons.  He  wore  also  a  sinister 
smile,  like  that  of  a  terrier  with  his  teeth  in  a  rat. 
I  concentrated  in  my  face  all  the  honesty  of  my 
race,  reached  out  my  hand  for  the  water-bottle, 
and  waved  the  officer  aside.  He  really  was  in 
the  way. 

The  gesture  had  its  effect ;  a  shade  of  doubt 
passed  across  his  countenance.  Could  I  be  some 
foreign  potentate  in  disguise  ?  Casimir  caught 
the  look,  and  poured  out  instantly  a  history  of 
my  life  at  home  and  abroad,  my  distinguished 
position  as  court  painter  to  the  universe,  my 
enormous  wealth,  my  unlimited  influence,  etc. 
The  master-stroke  of  dragoman  policy  of  course 
would  have  been  to  pacify  the  officer  and  satisfy 
me. 

There  was  a  hurried  conference,  and  the  two 
disappeared.  This  time  Casimir  held  the  officer 
by  the  arm,  in  a  wheedling,  confiding  way. 

The  crowd  crystallized  again,  closer  now  than 
ever.  I  began  on  the  umbrellas,  and  had  dotted 
in  a  few  of  the  figures,  with  dabs  of  vermilion 
216 


IN  CONSTANTINOPLE 

for  the  omnipresent  fez,  when  an  Arab  who 
was  craning  his  head  over  my  canvas  was 
unceremoniously  brushed  aside,  and  three  pre- 
servers of  the  peace  stood  before  me  —  the  red- 
fezzed  rat-catcher  and  two  others.  Casimir's 
face  was  permeated  with  an  expression  of  su- 
preme contentment.  I  saw  at  a  glance  that, 
whatever  had  happened,  his  own  innocence  had 
been  established.  I  saw,  too,  that  he  had  cut 
away  from  under  my  feet  every  plank  in  my 
moral  platform.  An  honest  expression  of  face, 
dense  ignorance  of  the  customs  of  the  country, 
and  righteous  indignation  would  no  longer  do. 

The  speaker  wore  fewer  buttons  than  the 
terrier,  and  had  a  pleasanter  smile.  "  Effendi," 
he  said,  "  your  dragoman  informs  me  that  you 
have  already  applied  to  the  Minister  of  Police 
for  a  permit,  and  that  it  will  be  ready  to-mor- 
row." This  in  Turkish,  Casimir  interpreting. 
"  I  am  sorry  to  interrupt  your  work  to-day, 
but  my  duty  requires  it.  Bring  your  permit  to 
my  station  in  the  morning,  and  I  will  give  my 
men  orders  to  protect  you  while  you  paint,  and 
to  keep  the  people  from  disturbing  you." 

It  was  beautiful  to  see  Casimir  as  he  trans- 
lated this  fairy-tale,  and  to  watch  how  with  one 
side  of  his  face  he  tried  to  express  his  deep 
interest  in  my  behalf,  and  with  the  other  his 
217 


A  PERSONALLY  CONDUCTED  ARREST 

entire  approval  of  the  course  the  chief  had 
taken. 

The  decision  of  the  officer  finished  operations 
for  the  day  in  Stamboul  and  its  vicinity,  and 
cut  off  further  discussion.  The  situation  com- 
pelled absolute  silence.  Casimir's  lie  about  his 
application  for  a  permit  and  the  chief's  courtesy 
left  me  no  other  course.  I  bowed  respectfully, 
thanked  the  officer  for  his  offer,  as  kind  as  it 
was  unexpected,  lighted  a  cigarette,  crossed  the 
street,  and  ordered  a  cup  of  coffee.  Casimir 
struck  my  colors  —  my  white  umbrella  —  and 
got  my  baggage-train  in  motion.  I  went  out 
with  my  side-arms  —  my  brushes  and  my  pri- 
vate papers  and  my  unfinished  sketch  —  intact. 
The  rout  was  complete. 

"It  was  t'e  only  way,  effendi,"  said  Casi- 
mir, laying  my  umbrella  at  my  feet.  "But 
for  Casimir  it  was  great  trouble  for  you.  T'e 
chief  was  furious.  We  go  to-morrow.  I  ask  for 
permit.  T'e  dragoman  of  t'e  minister  is  my 
long-time  friend.  He  do  anyt'ing  for  me.  The 
permit  come  in  one  minute.  Not  to-day ;  it  is 
too  late."  His  recent  diplomatic  success  had 
evidently  emboldened  him. 

"  But  there  is  still  half  a  day  left,  Casimir. 
What  time  does  the  boat  leave  the  Galata  Bridge 
for  Scutari  ?  " 

218 


IN  CONSTANTINOPLE 

"  Every  hour.  Does  t'e  effendi  wish  to  see 
t'e  howling  dervish  ?  " 

"  No ;  the  effendi  wishes  to  see  the  foun- 
tain at  the  mosque  nearest  the  landing." 

"To  wash  himse'f  ?  "  —  with  a  puzzled 
look. 

"  No ;  to  paint." 

"  But  t'e  police  ?   What  will  Casimir  do  ?  " 

"  What  you  ought  to  do  is  to  get  me  a  per- 
mit at  once.  What  you  will  do  will  be  to 
concoct  another  yarn.  Pick  up  that  easel ;  I 
am  not  going  to  waste  the  afternoon,  police  or 
no  police.  Quick,  now  !  " 

So  we  went  to  Scutari.  There  certainly  could 
be  no  crime  in  painting  so  beautiful  a  thing  as 
the  fountain  of  Scutari.  If  these  fairy-like  crea- 
tions of  the  East  were  objects  of  worship  I 
could  easily  turn  Mohammedan. 

This  time  Casimir  laid  aside  the  skin  of  the 
'possum  and  wriggled  into  the  scales  of  the  ser- 
pent. Opposite  the  fountain  was  a  low  awning 
shading  a  dozen  or  more  little  square  stools, 
occupied  by  as  many  natives  drinking  coffee 
and  smoking  chibouks.  On  one  of  these  stools 
Casimir,  gliding  noiselessly,  placed  my  paint- 
box. The  umbrella  was  not  needed,  as  the 
av/ning  hid  the  sun. 

This  master-stroke,  costing  the  price  of  a  cup 
219 


A  PERSONALLY  CONDUCTED  ARREST 

of  coffee,  —  half  a  piastre,  or  two  cents,  —  de- 
ceived the  crowd  outside,  as  well  as  the  police  ; 
and  the  sketch  was  finished  in  peace,  while 
Casimir  drank  his  coffee  and  grew  black  in  the 
face  from  exhausting  his  lungs  on  a  chibouk. 
(Casimir  is  a  Greek,  not  a  Turk,  and  cigarettes, 
not  chibouks,  are  his  weakness.) 

But  my  relief  was  not  of  long  standing.  In 
upper  Stamboul,  the  next  day,  I  was  politely 
but  firmly  commanded  to  "move  on;  "  and 
only  the  intervention  of  a  grave  and  dignified 
old  priest  —  a  vision  in  soft,  flowing  silk  robes, 
turquoise-blue,  pale  green,  and  lemon-yellow  — 
prevented  my  being  marched  off  to  the  nearest 
station  for  investigation. 

I  felt  that  the  situation  was  beyond  any 
former  experience.  I  must  either  present  my- 
self at  the  office  of  the  Minister  of  Police  and 
plead  for  a  permit,  or  close  my  outfit  and  give 
up  work. 

II 

At  the  end  of  a  flight  of  wooden  steps  crowded 
with  soldiers,  a  long,  wide  hall,  and  a  dingy 
room,  I  found  the  chief  dragoman  of  the  Minis- 
ter of  Police  —  not  a  dragoman  after  the  order 
of  Casimir,  but  a  dragoman  who  spoke  seven 
languages  and  had  the  manners  of  a  diplomat. 
220 


IN  CONSTANTINOPLE 

In  Constantinople  there  are  of  course  drago- 
mans and  dragomans.  Each  embassy  has  one 
as  an  interpreter.  Many  of  them  are  of  high 
rank,  the  German  dragoman  being  a  count. 
These  men,  as  translators,  are  intrusted,  of 
course,  with  secrets  of  great  moment.  Every 
consulate  has  a  dragoman,  who  translates  the 
jargon  of  the  East  —  Arabic,  Turkish,  modern 
Greek,  Bulgarian  patois,  and  the  like  —  into 
intelligent  English,  French,  or  German  ;  and  so 
has  every  high  native  official  with  much  or  little 
to  do  with  the  various  nationalities  that  make 
up  the  Ottoman  empire  and  its  neighbors. 
There  are,  too,  the  modern  guides  called  drago- 
mans, who  interpret  in  many  tongues,  and  who 
lie  in  all. 

When  appealed  to,  this  high-caste  dragoman 
of  the  minister  said  evasively  that  he  believed 
he  remembered  Casimir  —  he  was  not  sure.  It 
was  necessary,  however,  for  me,  before  ap- 
proaching his  Excellency,  to  be  armed  with  a 
passport  and  a  letter  from  my  consul  vouching 
for  my  standing  and  integrity.  Something  might 
then  be  done,  although  the  prospect  was  not 
cheering  ;  still,  with  a  wave  of  his  hand  and  a 
profound  bow,  he  would  do  his  utmost. 

I  instantly  produced  my  passport,  —  I  al- 
ways wore  it  in  my  inside  pocket,  over  my 
221 


A  PERSONALLY  CONDUCTED  ARREST 

heart,  —  and  at  once  called  his  attention  to 
the  cabalistic  signature  of  the  Turkish  official 
who  had  vised  it  on  the  day  of  my  arrival  — 
three  wiggles  and  a  dot,  a  sign  manual  bear- 
ing a  strong  resemblance  to  an  inch- worm  scal- 
ing a  tree. 

The  next  day  —  there  is  not  the  slightest 
hurry  in  the  East  —  I  handed  in  my  second 
document,  emblazoned  on  the  seal  with  the 
arms  of  my  country,  and  certifying  to  my 
peaceful  and  non-revolutionary  character,  my 
blameless  life,  and  the  harmless  nature  of  my 
calling. 

The  minister  was  in ;  I  was  asked  to  take  a 
seat  outside. 

The  outside  was  the  same  hall,  bare  of  every- 
thing but  officers,  soldiers,  and  hangers-on.  At 
one  end  stood  two  men  with  worn-out  stubs  of 
feather  dusters,  who  pounced  upon  every  pair 
of  shoes  that  entered  the  sacred  precinct,  giving 
each  two  quick  polishing  strokes  —  one  piaster 
for  Casimir's  and  mine.  At  the  other  end  hung 
a  great  red  curtain,  covering  the  door  of  the 
minister's  office,  patched  and  bound  with  lea- 
ther, as  stiff  as  a  theatre-drop,  and  guarded  by 
an  officer  in  full  uniform.  My  passport  open, 
my  character  indorsed,  my  shoes  dusted  and 
the  dusting  paid  for,  I  was  ready  for  his  august 
222 


IN  CONSTANTINOPLE 

presence.   The  curtain  was  drawn  aside,  and  I 
stepped  in. 

Seated  at  a  common  folding-desk  littered  with 
papers,  surrounded  by  secretaries  and  officers, 
sat  a  man  perhaps  fifty  years  of  age,  with  calm, 
resolute,  clear-cut  face,  and  an  eye  that  could 
have  drawn  the  secrets  from  a  sphinx.  He  was 
neatly  dressed  in  dark  clothes,  with  plain  black 
necktie.  The  only  spots  of  color  about  him 
were  a  speck  of  red  in  his  buttonhole  and  the 
vermilion  fez  that  crowned  his  well-modelled 
head.  In  his  hand  he  held  the  consul's  letter 
and  my  passport  and  visiting-card.  For  an  in- 
stant he  bored  me  full  of  holes,  and  then  with 
a  satisfied  glance  motioned  me  to  a  seat.  Cas- 
imir,  who  had  preceded  me,  was  bent  double 
in  profound  obeisance,  his  head  almost  on  the 
floor.  I  returned  his  Excellency's  glance  as  fear- 
lessly as  I  could,  and  sat  down  to  look  him  over. 
At  this  instant  a  clerk  entered  with  some  papers 
and  advanced  rapidly  toward  his  desk.  The 
interruption  evidently  was  inopportune,  for  the 
same  eye  that  had  comprehended  my  entirety 
shot  an  angry  look  at  the  intruder,  who  stopped, 
wavered,  and  then,  shrivelling  up  like  a  scorched 
leaf,  glided  back  out  of  the  room.  Not  a  word 
was  spoken  by  either.  The  power  of  the  eye 
had  been  enough.  It  was  only  a  flash  glance 
223 


A  PERSONALLY  CONDUCTED  ARREST 

that  I  got,  but  it  revealed  to  me  one  of  the 
hidden  springs  of  this  man's  dominating  will. 
Here,  then,  was  the  throttle-valve  of  the  Otto- 
man empire.  When  the  Sultan  moved  the  lever 
this  man  set  the  wheels  in  motion. 

He  listened  patiently,  scanned  the  papers 
keenly  as  I  talked  on,  the  sinuous,  genuflecting 
Casimir  putting  it  into  proper  shape,  and  then 
handed  me  a  cigarette.  I  lighted  it,  and  ram- 
bled on,  explaining  how,  four  years  before, 
when  my  sketching  outfit  and  baggage  had 
been  overhauled  by  two  officers  at  the  station, 
doubtless  by  his  Excellency's  orders  (he  bowed 
slightly,  but  gave  no  other  sign  as  to  the  truth 
of  my  surmise),  I  had  personally  called  the  at- 
tention of  these  officers  to  a  sketch  made  above 
the  navy-yard,  with  all  the  men-of-war  and  tor- 
pedo-boats left  out,  as  I  considered  that  I  had 
no  right  to  transfer  them  to  my  canvas ;  and 
how  both  had  then  been  satisfied,  and  left  me 
with  apologies  for  the  examination.  He  raised 
his  head  at  this,  and  covered  me  with  one  sweep 
of  his  eye,  from  my  dusted  shoes  to  my  bared 
head.  Then  he  played  with  his  cigarette  for  a 
moment  and  said  slowly  and  thoughtfully,  — 
"  Come  to-morrow  at  one  o'clock." 
I  spent  the  remainder  of  that  day  sketching 
about  the  old  walls  of  Seraglio  Point,  making 
224 


IN  CONSTANTINOPLE 

snap-shots  with  my  sketch-book,  dodging  th& 
police  along  the  water-front  of  Stamboul,  idling 
about  the  cafes,  and  in  and  out  of  the  narrow 
streets  packed  so  full  of  people  that  I  could  with 
difficulty  push  myself  through.  I  could  easily 
believe  the  statement  that  there  are  more  peo- 
ple to  the  square  foot  in  Stamboul  than  any- 
where else  on  the  globe. 

At  noon  the  following  day  I  again  had  my 
shoes  dusted,  and  again  cooled  their  heels  for 
an  hour  outside  the  swinging  mat.  One  o'clock 
was  my  hour,  not  that  of  his  Excellency. 

When  I  was  at  last  admitted  the  minister  came 
forward  and  extended  his  hand.  Casimir  braced 
up  and  got  his  head  high  enough  to  see  over  the 
desk. 

"  I  cannot  grant  your  consul's  request  to 
give  you  a  permit,"  he  said  in  a  calm  voice. 
"  In  the  present  disturbed  condition  of  affairs  it 
would  establish  a  precedent  which  would  after- 
ward cause  us  trouble." 

Casimir's  face,  when  he  translated  this, 
looked  as  if  it  had  been  squeezed  in  a  door. 
The  threatened  collapse  of  all  his  rosy  plans 
seemed  to  take  the  stiffness  out  of  his  neck. 

"I  have  decided,  therefore,  to  detail  an  of- 
ficer who  will  personally  conduct  you  wherever 
you  wish  to  go.  I  shall  rely  upon  your  good 
225 


A  PERSONALLY  CONDUCTED  ARREST 

judgment  to  paint  only  such  things  as  your  ex- 
perience teaches  you  are  proper." 

Casimir's  back  now  humped  up  like  a  camel's, 
and  his  face  beamed  as  he  interpreted.  He  did 
not,  of  course,  put  the  minister's  speech  in  these 
words  —  he  mangled  it  with  a  dialect  of  his  own ; 
but  I  knew  what  the  soft,  musical  cadence  of 
the  minister's  voice  meant.  Then  his  Excellency 
went  on,  — 

"  The  officer  selected  is  one  of  my  personal 
staff.  He  will  be  at  your  hotel  in  the  morning 
to  receive  your  orders.  Au  revoir." 

When  I  crossed  the  Galata  Bridge  the  follow- 
ing morning  I  was  attended  by  two  men,  —  one 
the  ever-suppliant  Casimir,  carrying  my  outfit 
as  triumphantly  as  if  it  contained  the  freedom 
of  the  city,  and  the  other  a  thickset,  broad- 
shouldered  man,  with  a  firm,  determined  face 
and  quick,  restless  eyes,  whom  the  gendarmes 
saluted  with  marked  respect  as  we  passed. 
This  was  Mahmoud,  attached  to  the  minister's 
personal  staff,  and  now  detailed  for  special  duty 
in  my  service.  He  was  responsible  for  my  con- 
duct, the  character  of  my  work,  and  my  life, 
with  full  power  to  strike  down  any  one  who 
molested  me,  and  with  equal  power  to  hurry 
me  to  the  nearest  lock-up  if  1  departed  a  hair 
226 


IN  CONSTANTINOPLE 

line  from  the  subjects  which,  by  the  gracious- 
ness  of  his  chief,  I  was  permitted  to  paint.  The 
sketches  I  made  would  never  have  been  possi- 
ble except  for  his  ceaseless  care  and  constant 
watchfulness  of  me.  A  Mohammedan  crowd  is 
not  always  considerate  of  an  infidel  dog,  espe- 
cially when  he  is  painting  sacred  mosques  and 
tombs.  Moreover,  stones  are  convenient  mis- 
siles when  such  giaours  are  about. 

Ill 

But  there  were  days  when  Mahmoud  was  not 
with  me,  days  at  Therapia,  a  little  nestling 
village  strung  around  a  curve  in  the  shore  line 
of  the  Bosporus,  with  abrupt  green  hills  rising 
about  it,  —  with  beautiful  gardens,  delightful 
groves,  and  flower-bordered  walks,  its  banks 
lapped  by  water  of  marvellous  clearness  and 
purity,  fresh  with  every  tide  from  the  Black 
Sea. 

This  Newport  of  the  East  was  founded  some 
centuries  ago  by  the  Greeks  because  of  its  in- 
vigorating climate, — Therapia  signifying  health, 
—  and  to-day  is  still  the  refuge  in  the  summer 
heats  not  only  of  many  of  the  pashas  and  other 
high  Turkish  dignitaries  whose  palaces  line  the 
water-front  or  crown  the  hills  near  by,  but  of 
scores  of  European  wayfarers  and  strangers  who 
227 


A  PERSONALLY  CONDUCTED  ARREST 

want  more  air  and  less  dog  than  can  be  found 
in  Pera. 

Here,  too,  are  the  houses  of  the  several  for- 
eign embassies,  —  English,  German,  French, 
and  the  others,  —  their  yachts  and  dispatch- 
boats  lying  at  anchor  almost  in  front  of  their 
gardens,  the  brasses  glistening  in  the  sun. 

And  the  charm  of  it  all !  The  boats'  crews 
of  Jack  Tars  in  their  white  suits  rowing  back 
and  forth,  answering  calls  from  the  shore  ;  the 
blue  water  —  as  blue  as  indigo  —  dotted  with 
cal'ques  skimming  about ;  the  dog-carts  and 
landaus  crowding  the  shore  road,  with  footmen 
in  gorgeous  Albanian  costumes  of  white  and  gold, 
and  with  sash  and  scimitar,  — all  make  a  scene 
of  surprising  brilliancy  and  beauty.  Diplomacy 
is  never  so  picturesque  as  at  Therapia. 

There  is,  too,  a  superb  hotel,  — the  Summer 
Palace,  aptly  called,  —  with  shaded  rooms,  big 
overarching  pines,  tennis-courts,  ball-rooms,  and 
bath-houses,  besides  all  the  delights  of  yacht 
and  ca'ique  life. 

This  Summer  Palace,  with  its  spacious  draw- 
ing-rooms and  broad  terraces,  is  thronged  nightly 
not  only  with  members  of  the  diplomatic  corps, 
with  their  secretaries  and  attaches,  —  daily  in 
touch  with  questions  of  vital  importance,  yet 
never  unmindful  of  the  seductions  of  gliding 
228 


IN  CONSTANTINOPLE 

slippers  and  waving  fans,  —  but  also  with  of- 
ficers of  the  imperial  army  and  navy,  members 
of  the  Sultan's  cabinet,  and  other  high  officials 
immediately  connected  with  his  Majesty's  gov- 
ernment. The  perfect  repose  of  manner  and  the 
easy,  unassumed  dignity  of  these  Turks,  es- 
pecially of  the  younger  men,  are  to  be  expected, 
for  Orientals  are  never  hurried  or  nervous ;  but 
their  graciousness  and  gentleness,  and,  more 
than  all,  their  unconscious  simplicity,  — a  sim- 
plicity that  comes  only  to  men  trained  to  good 
manners  from  their  infancy,  just  as  they  are 
trained  to  swim,  to  ride,  and  to  shoot, — were, 
I  confess,  revelations  to  me. 

At  these  gatherings  in  the  Summer  Palace 
there  were,  of  course,  no  Turkish  women  ;  but 
there  were  plenty  of  others  —  Greeks,  Arme- 
nians, and  Europeans  —  crowding  the  rooms 
all  day  and  filling  the  cotillions  at  night.  If  his 
Majesty  passed  sleepless  nights  at  the  palace 
ten  miles  away,  worrying  over  the  latest  de- 
mands of  the  Powers,  there  was  no  sign  of  it 
at  Therapia.  The  merry  hours  went  on.  The 
caiques  were  nightly  filled  with  bevies  of  young 
and  old,  singing  in  the  moonlight.  There  were 
tennis  matches,  afternoon  teas,  excursions  by 
land  and  water,  and  all  that  goes  to  the 
making  of  the  life  of  pretty  women  and  gallant 
229 


A  PERSONALLY  CONDUCTED  ARREST 

men  having  no  stronger  ties  than  those  born  of 
mutual  enjoyment,  and  apparently  weighted 
with  no  duties  more  arduous  than  the  killing  of 
time. 

And  there  were  other  days  without  Mahmoud 
at  Stenia,  a  few  miles  from  Therapia,  to  which 
place  1  once  took  ship  —  the  daintiest  little  ship, 
all  cushions  and  rugs,  manned  by  two  boatmen 
in  white  balloon  trousers,  with  yards  and  yards 
of  stuff  to  each  leg,  and  Greek  jackets  embroi- 
dered with  gold .  And  from  Stenia  to  the  ' '  Sweet 
Waters  of  Asia,"  an  Arabian  Nights  sort  of 
place,  with  an  exquisite  Moorish  fountain  of 
marble,  and  great  trees  shading  flocks  and 
bunches  of  houris  in  white  yashmaks  and  em- 
broidered feredjes  of  mauve,  yellow,  and  pink, 
out  for  an  airing  from  their  harems  ;  all  on  mats 
and  rugs  spread  on  the  grass,  attended  by  black 
eunuchs,  with  hands  as  black  as  terrapins' 
paws,  and  as  wrinkled  and  leathery. 

The  almond-eyed  beauties  chattered  and 
laughed  and  munched  bonbons  and  partook  of 
rose-leaf  jelly,  sitting  with  their  tiny  feet  tucked 
under  them,  Turkish  fashion,  their  cigarettes 
perfuming  the  still  air,  until  their  caiques  gath- 
ered them  in  again,  and  they  all  floated  away 
like  so  many  colored  swans.  You  must  not 
wander  too  near.  Even  a  faithful  Turk  turns 

23Q 


IN  CONSTANTINOPLE 

his  head  away  when  he  passes  a  woman :  a 
Christian  dog  might  miss  his  just  above  the 
collar  button  for  forgetting  the  courtesy. 

Neither  was  Mahmoud  with  me  when  I  went 
to  the  Greek  Fair,  within  a  mile  of  the  Sweet 
Waters,  and  that  beautiful  fountain,  around 
which  sit  the  more  beautiful  houris,  whose  eyes 
shine  large  and  luminous  through  thin  veils. 

This  day  the  air  was  delicious,  the  sky  like 
a  delft  plate,  with  puffs  of  white  clouds  in  high 
relief.  For  hours  I  watched  the  merry-go-rounds, 
and  the  jugglers  on  their  mats,  until  I  grew 
hungry  enough  for  even  a  Greek  cafe, — and  it 
is  a  brave  and  reckless  appetite  that  dares  an 
Oriental  kitchen. 

This  cafe  was  under  a  tree,  with  a  few  pine 
boards  for  a  table,  the  galley  being  within 
handing  distance,  with  a  charcoal  fire  blazing. 
The  abominations  of  stew  and  fry  and  toastings 
were  intolerable  ;  but  I  succeeded  in  getting  a 
box  of  sardines  and  half  a  pint  of  native  wine, 
a  loaf  of  bread  and  some  raw  tomatoes  and  salt, 
with  a  bit  of  onion,  which  I  gathered  up  and 
spread  out  on  the  pine  boards.  When  the  com- 
bination of  chef,  head  waiter,  and  proprietor, 
all  covered  by  one  fez,  presented  his  bill,  it 
amounted  to  a  sum  that  would  have  supported 
an  Oriental  and  his  family  for  a  month. 
231 


A  PERSONALLY  CONDUCTED  ARREST 

There  are  occasions  when  your  individual 
pantomime  is  more  effective  than  the  closest 
translation  of  your  spoken  words.  Mine  to  mine 
host  ended  in  an  abrupt  turning  on  my  heel, 
with  hands  tightly  clenched.  When  the  crowd 
began  to  take  sides  with  the  Greek  and  mat- 
ters assumed  an  ugly  look,  I  threw  upon  the 
ground  a  silver  coin  equal  to  one  fourth  of  the 
charge.  This  turned  the  tide,  —  the  bystanders 
considered  the  sum  too  appallingly  large  even 
for  a  Greek  fair ! 

Here,  too,  I  had  my  fortune  told  by  a  Tzi- 
gane from  the  desert,  —  a  real  gypsy  in  baggy 
trousers  of  calico  and  little  bare  feet,  with  sil- 
ver bangles  around  her  ankles,  and  with  a  blue 
silk  handkerchief  wound  loosely  about  her 
head.  She  had  rings  of  turquoise  in  her  ears 
and  rings  of  silver  on  her  fingers,  and,  for  aught 
I  know,  tinkling  bells  on  her  stubby,  dust-cov- 
ered toes.  She  held  my  hand  in  a  caressing  way, 
and  passed  her  own  over  it  softly,  and  looked 
at  me  with  her  large,  deep  eyes,  and  told  of  the 
fair-haired  man  and  the  letter  that  would  come, 
and  the  dark-eyed  woman  who  loved  me,  pick- 
ing out  from  a  bag,  as  she  talked,  now  a  nut, 
now  a  pebble  or  a  bit  of  broken  glass,  and 
spreading  them  on  her  lap.  Her  incantation 
began  with  only  one  piastre  as  a  talisman,  — 
232 


IN  CONSTANTINOPLE 

mine,  of  course,  —  but  it  required  two  francs  in 
addition  before  the  fair  man  of  whom  she  had 
warned  me  was  outwitted  and  the  dark  eyes 
were  made  happy.  Casimir  interpreted  all  this 
with  an  expression  of  contempt  and  disgust  on 
his  face  wholly  out  of  proportion  to  the  occa- 
sion, and  entirely  unjust,  I  thought,  to  the  dust- 
soiled  priestess  who  thus  read  my  future.  But 
then  the  francs  did  not  go  Casimir's  way. 

Although  Mahmoud  did  not  follow  me  to 
Therapia,  where  I  spent  the  nights,  he  was 
waiting  every  morning  for  me  in  Stamboul  at 
the  Galata  Bridge,  the  gangplank  that  unloads 
Europe  into  Asia,  and  vice  versa,  every  hour  of 
the  day  and  night.  When  I  landed  in  this  dis- 
trict I  was  his  prisoner.  One  day  he  led  me  to 
the  Plaza  of  the  Hippodrome,  —  the  Atmeidan, 
—  with  its  twin  needles  of  stone  ;  another  day 
to  the  west  facade  of  the  Mosque  of  Sultan 
Ahmed  ;  again  to  the  Court  of  the  Pigeon 
Mosque,  and  to  the  Mosque  Bajazet,  the  Mosque 
of  Suleiman  the  Magnificent,  and  the  others. 

Casimir,  of  course,  was  always  within  hand 
touch  of  Mahmoud  when  the  morning  boat  from 
Therapia  was  made  fast.  It  was  his  craning 
head  which  appeared  first  over  the  red  sea  of 
fezzes  climbing  the  wide  landing-plank,  —  one 
hand  on  my  luggage,  the  other  shading  his  eyes. 
235 


A  PERSONALLY  CONDUCTED  ARREST 

Next  I  would  perceive  Mahmoud,  grave,  digni- 
fied, attentive.  Then  we  would  all  three  make 
our  way  through  the  throng,  take  a  tram  in 
Stamboul,  and  slowly  mount  the  hill  to  St. 
Sophia.  Before  the  week  was  out  the  police  had 
come  to  know  the  posse  of  three.  The  priests, 
too,  who  at  first  were  dubious  about  the  hon- 
esty of  my  intentions,  and  who  demurred  at  the 
sacrilege  of  my  painting  their  mosques,  now  sa- 
luted me  in  passing.  The  people  of  the  streets, 
though,  were  still  as  curious  as  ever,  crowding 
about  my  easel  with  eyes  staring  in  wonder. 
But  if  they  pressed  too  close,  a  word  in  an  un- 
dertone from  Mahmoud  melted  the  crowd  away 
or  awed  it  into  respectful  silence. 

When  the  muezzin  called  from  the  minaret, 
and  the  faithful  laid  down  their  work  and 
moved  into  the  mosque  to  pray,  Mahmoud  went 
too.  After  the  first  day  he  discarded  his  uni- 
form, all  but  his  fez,  for  a  suit  of  light  gray,  ex- 
changing his  short  sword  for  a  stout  stick.  This 
stick  Casimir  held  as  his  badge  of  office  while 
Mahmoud  prayed. 

1  followed  him  once  into  the  Mosque  of 
Ahmed,  and  watched  him  as  he  knelt,  barefoot, 
his  face  to  the  stone  wall,  his  lips  moving  in 
prayer,  his  eyes  on  Mecca,  his  forehead  touch- 
ing the  mats.  This  bloodthirsty  savage  !  This 
234 


IN  CONSTANTINOPLE 

barbaric  Turk  whom  we  would  teach  morals  and 
manners  !  I  can  imagine  how  hoarse  a  muezzin's 
throat  would  become  calling  the  Broadway 
squad  to  prayers,  if  his  duty  compelled  him  to 
continue  calling  until  our  police  should  fall  upon 
their  knees  in  the  nearest  church. 

Now  and  then  Mahmoud  would  buy  a  loaf  of 
bread  and  feed  the  dogs  —  not  his  dogs,  not 
anybody's  dogs,  only  the  dogs  of  the  streets. 
It  is  a  mistake  to  call  these  dogs  scavengers ; 
but  for  the  kindness  of  the  people  they  would 
starve.  If  some  highly  civilized  Caucasian 
should  lose  his  temper  when  one  of  these  hun- 
gry, homeless  curs  looks  up  into  his  face,  and 
use  his  boot  or  his  cane  in  reply,  it  would  be 
Mahmoud's  duty  promptly  to  convey  the  highly 
civilized  person  to  the  nearest  station,  from 
which  the  chief  would  instantly  send  him  to 
jail  for  a  year.  When  a  child  stumbles  and  falls 
in  the  street  the  nearest  man  springs  forward 
to  save  it.  When  a  father  enters  a  son's  pre- 
sence, though  he  be  as  ragged  as  Lazarus  and  as 
dirty  as  a  scavenger,  the  son  remains  standing 
until  he  has  permission  to  be  seated.  And  yet 
in  my  own  land  we  build  ten-story  buildings 
side  by  side  —  one  to  prevent  cruelty  to  animals, 
another  to  children,  and  a  third  to  provide 
against  the  neglect  of  the  aged  ! 
235 


A  PERSONALLY  CONDUCTED  ARREST 

Mahmoud's  watchfulness  of  me  was  not  over 
until  1  packed  my  luggage  for  Venice  and  he 
was  called  upon  to  give  an  account  of  his  stew- 
ardship to  his  chief,  the  Minister  of  Police. 

I  can  see  him  now,  standing  that  last  day  in 
the  doorway  of  the  station,  waving  his  hand. 
His  final  courtesy  was  to  return  me  my  passport 
unopened  by  the  guard  at  the  station.  The  air 
with  which  he  placed  this  much-be-inked  docu- 
ment in  my  hands  conveyed  to  me  even  more 
clearly  than  his  translated  words  how  fully  he 
had  appreciated  my  docility  while  a  prisoner  in 
his  hands,  how  sorry  he  was  to  have  me  leave, 
and  how  entirely  unnecessary  and  useless  such 
vouchers  were  between  men  who  knew  each 
other  so  well.  Strange  to  say,  the  chief  in- 
spector at  the  frontier  thought  so  too,  returning 
it  with  a  bow  and  a  look  instantly  intelligible 
to  me,  —  knowing  Mahmoud  as  I  did. 

And  besides  that  of  Mahmoud  there  was  one 
other  face,  or  rather  part  of  a  face,  —  his  back 
was  toward  me,  —  of  which  I  caught  sight  as  I 
whirled  out  of  the  station. 

It  was  Casimir's. 

He  was  biting  one  of  the  coins  I  had  just 
given  him  to  see  if  it  was  good. 


236 


THE  HUNGARIAN  MILLENNIUM 


IF  monsieur  will  walk  upstairs,  the  most  pri- 
vate rooms  are  on  the  second  floor ;  "  this 
with  a  wave  of  a  napkin  hung  over  his  wrist 
and  folded  like  a  bath-towel. 

I  followed  up  a  richly  carpeted  staircase,  soft 
and  velvety  to  the  tread,  past  mirrors  concealing 
muffled  doors,  down  a  long  hall  hung  with  pic- 
tures and  lighted  by  softened  electric  lights, 
through  an  archway  draped  with  silk  curtains, 
and  into  a  cosey  room  filled  with  small  tables 
resplendent  in  white  linen,  spotless  silver,  and 
polished  glass.  He  drew  out  a  chair,  placed  the 
menu  before  me,  and  took  that  lop-sided,  deaf- 
in-one-ear  attitude  generally  assumed  by  a  tall 
waiter  listening  breathlessly  for  your  opening 
order. 

In  the  interval  between  soup  and  fish  I  be- 
gan to  look  about  me.  The  walls  were  panelled 
with  mirrors ;  the  ceilings  were  covered  with 
pink  cupids  diving  into  banks  of  white  clouds. 
237 


THE  HUNGARIAN  MILLENNIUM 

There  were  chandeliers  of  crystal,  sideboards 
of  ebony,  and  bunches  of  chrysanthemums  ; 
there  were  candlesticks  of  silver,  with  candles 
topped  by  red  silk  shades ;  there  were  relays 
of  finger-bowls  and  whole  arsenals  of  forks  and 
spoons  ready  for  instant  service,  besides  all  the 
other  appurtenances,  appointments,  and  equip- 
ments of  a  restaurant,  so  exclusive  and  costly 
that  one  would  have  supposed  that  none  but  a 
plutocrat  or  a  stranger  from  out  of  town  dare 
enter  it. 

Opening  from  this  inner  room  was  a  smaller 
apartment  —  I  really  had  to  pass  through  it  to 
reach  my  own  seat  —  where  a  table  was  spread 
for  ten  or  a  dozen  expected  guests.  Here  were 
more  shaded  candles  and  a  great  basket  of  roses, 
while  at  every  other  plate  was  laid  a  bunch  of 
violets  tied  with  a  purple  ribbon. 

As  my  roast  and  one  vegetable  were  laid  be- 
fore me  —  it  was  a  table  d'hote  at  a  fixed  price, 
wine  extra  —  an  important-looking  personage 
entered  the  smaller  apartment  and  glanced  crit- 
ically at  the  waiting  table.  He  was  an  elderly 
man,  with  a  white  mustache  waxed  into  needle- 
points, a  very  red  face,  and  bald  head.  From 
his  chin  to  his  waist-band  and  as  far  east  and 
west  as  his  armpits,  an  unbroken  snow  of 
waistcoat,  shirt,  tie,  and  collar  stretched  in  one 
238 


THE  HUNGARIAN  MILLENNIUM 

trackless  sheet  of  white.  In  the  centre  of  the 
drift  was  a  single  diamond  glistening  like  an 
icicle. 

A  moment  afterward  a  stout  lady  entered, 
evidently  the  wife  of  the  important  personage, 

—  a  stout  lady  in  yellow  satin,  with  black  fea- 
thers and  pearls,  who  dropped  little  cards  at  the 
several  plates,  and  disappeared  through  the  cur- 
tained archway  and  into  the  velvety  corridor. 
All  this  time  the  personage  was  examining  the 
labels  on  a  battery  of  bottles  masked  behind  a 
sideboard. 

With  my  pease  —  table  d'h6te  pease  are  al- 
ways a  separate  dish  in  this  part  of  the  world 

—  came  the  rustle  of  silk  and  the  bubble  of  talk, 
broken  by  little  gurgles  of  laughter  as  the  ex- 
pected guests  appeared.   The  important  person- 
age led  the  way,  with  a  woman  on  his  arm  as 
beautiful  as  any  to  be  found  in  all  Europe,  and 
followed  by  a  procession  of  handsome  and  well- 
dressed  people,  the  rear  being  brought  up  by 
the  stout  lady  in  yellow  satin,  escorted  by  one 
of  those  square-shouldered,  tight-laced,  pipe- 
stem-legged  young  officers  so  often  seen  in  Vi- 
enna, in  the  Volksgarten,  or  along  the  Ring- 
strasse. 

With  the  serving  of  my  coffee  and  cheese, 
the  merriment  of  my  neighbors  was  at  its  height. 
239 


THE  HUNGARIAN  MILLENNIUM 

Every  one  was  laughing,  talking,  reaching  un- 
der the  clusters  of  roses  to  touch  one  another's 
glasses,  keeping  up  a  rattling  fire  of  good- 
natured  badinage,  all  in  an  unknown  tongue, 
while  each  and  every  one  seemed  as  uncon- 
scious of  my  presence  —  I  sat  within  ten  feet 
of  the  personage's  chair  —  as  if  I  had  been  a 
painted  cupid  myself  suspended  in  mid-air  above 
their  heads. 

With  the  bringing  in  by  the  waiter  of  the 
paper  containing  the  sum  of  my  indebtedness, 
and  my  payment  of  the  fixed  price,  —  1  laugh 
now  when  I  think  how  small  it  was,  —  I  arose 
from  my  seat  and  passed  the  merry  table  on 
my  way  out,  with  that  abashed,  noiseless,  no- 
business-to-be-there  tread  common  to  all  men 
in  a  like  situation.  To  my  astonishment,  the 
personage  also  rose,  saluting  me  graciously,  his 
guests  at  the  same  time  pausing  in  their  talk, 
each  face  reflecting  the  courtesy  of  the  host, 
while  I,  doubled  up  with  badly  executed  bows, 
passed  into  the  velvet  corridor,  with  its  pictures 
and  rose-colored  electric  bulbs,  and  so  down- 
stairs, and  out  upon  a  wide  boulevard  lined  by 
palaces,  thronged  by  gayly  dressed  people,  and 
brilliant  with  myriads  of  lights. 

Out  where  ?  On  one  of  the  great  boule- 
vards of  Paris  —  the  Capucines,  or  perhaps 
240 


THE  HUNGARIAN  MILLENNIUM 

the  Champs  Elysees  itself  —  or  possibly  upon 
the  sidewalk  of  Unter  den  Linden  in  Berlin,  or 
the  Ringstrasse  of  Vienna  ? 

Guess  again,  my  friend.  This  boulevard  has 
twice  as  many  people  at  this  hour  of  the  night 
as  the  Champs  Elysees ;  is  altogether  more 
beautiful  than  the  Ringstrasse,  and  infinitely 
gayer  than  the  Unter  den  Linden.  Besides  all 
that,  underneath  its  surface  runs  the  most  per- 
fect electric  railway  in  the  world,  with  stations 
every  few  blocks,  reached  by  flights  of  steps 
descending  from  the  sidewalk,  stations  lined 
with  pure  white  tiles  and  lighted  by  electric 
lights,  while  at  the  far  end  stretches  a  park,  in 
which  is  placed  the  most  satisfying  and  instruc- 
tive exhibition  of  recent  times,  the  Exposition 
of  the  Millennium  of  Hungary. 

For  it  is  in  neither  Paris,  Berlin,  nor  Vienna 
that  I  have  dined  so  delightfully  and  been  so 
overcome  with  the  courtesies  of  strangers.  On 
the  contrary,  it  is  in  that  little  split-in-two  town 
on  the  Danube,  seven  hours  by  rail  east  of  Vi- 
enna, the  city  of  Buda-Pesth,  its  old  Oriental 
half  clinging  to  the  heights  of  Buda  on  the  one 
bank,  and  its  more  modern  half,  the  city  of 
Pesth,  spread  out  over  the  other. 

You  are  surprised,  doubtless,  at  the  surround- 
ings I  have  described, — the  cafe,  the  guests, 
241 


THE  HUNGARIAN  MILLENNIUM 

the  wide,  gayly  thronged  street.  You  had  an 
idea  that  Hungary  was  one  of  the  out-of-the- 
way  places  of  the  earth,  inhabited  by  strolling 
gypsy  bands  playing  on  queer  instruments ; 
that  it  was  browsed  over  by  herds  of  goats  and 
sheep  attended  by  barelegged  shepherd  boys 
blowing  Pan-pipes.  You  fancied,  perhaps,  that 
its  only  productions  were  certain  brands  of  min- 
eral waters  of  highly  pronounced  and  widely 
advertised  medicinal  properties,  or  odd  varieties 
of  silver  bangles  and  girdles  worn  by  male  and 
female  peasants  shod  in  high  boots,  into  which 
are  tucked  trousers  of  unusual  width  and  loose- 
ness. 

If  you  have  thought  none  of  these  things,  I 
frankly  confess  that  I  have. 

Before  I  had  been  in  Buda-Pesth  many  hours, 
however,  I  felt  my  preconceived  notions  van- 
ish. With  a  bewilderment  that  never  left  me 
while  I  was  in  Hungary,  I  walked  out  upon  the 
wide  boulevard,  the  Andrassy-ut,  and  looked 
back  at  the  Cafe  Drechsler,  where  I  had  just 
dined,  a  really  superb  building  of  light  stone 
incrusted  with  carvings  and  decorated  by  life- 
sized  statues.  Further  progress  up  the  Andras- 
sy-ut increased  my  wondering  admiration.  In 
almost  every  block  I  found  other  spacious  cafes, 
ablaze  with  lights  and  thronged  with  other  gayly 
242 


THE  HUNGARIAN  MILLENNIUM 

dressed  people,  not  in  impossible  baggy  trou- 
sers and  boots,  but  in  French  bonnets  and  Worth 
dresses,  all  sipping  their  coffee  as  they  listened 
to  the  weird  strains  of  Tzigany  music,  with  its 
hesitating  notes,  intricate  crescendoes,  and  ner- 
vous soarings, — a  music  so  infectious  and  in- 
spiring that  hardly  a  slipper  was  still.  Every 
now  and  then  I  came  upon  an  octagon,  which 
widened  the  broad  thoroughfare  into  a  "  place  " 
with  a  Hungarian  name  all  £'s  and  c's,  sur- 
rounded by  great  apartment  houses  and  hotels, 
their  broken  roof-lines  massed  against  the  sky 
in  picturesque  effects  altogether  different  from 
those  produced  by  the  endless  mansards  of 
Paris  in  their  never-varying  height.  Still  fur- 
ther up  the  street  were  the  lights  of  spacious 
city  villas,  with  gardens  and  big  trees,  while  at 
the  very  end  —  a  sweep  of  a  half-circle,  its  di- 
ameter line  marked  by  a  series  of  towers  hung 
with  banners  and  festooned  with  myriads  of 
colored  lanterns  —  was  the  main  gate  of  the 
Exposition. 

Night  is  not  the  best  time  to  judge  of  an  ex- 
hibition of  this  kind,  I  said  to  myself  as  I  neared 
the  entrance.  Night  is  too  forgiving;  its  masses 
of  shadows  conceal  too  tenderly.  Night  is  never 
really  honest.  Even  its  artificial  high  lights  add 
to  the  sins  of  its  kindly  deception. 
243 


THE  HUNGARIAN  MILLENNIUM 

The  glimpses  that  I  caught  were,  to  be  sure, 
all  inviting.  There  were  vistas  of  winding  grav- 
elled walks,  ablaze  with  electric  lights,  and 
stencilled  here  and  there  with  the  black  shadows 
of  overbending  trees  outlined  against  the  sky  ; 
avenues  of  great  marble  palaces  fretted  over  with 
Oriental  tracery,  and  ending  in  broad  flights  of 
steps  guarded  by  big  bronze  figures ;  clusters 
of  magnificent  domes,  minarets,  and  towers. 

But  my  better  judgment  and  my  former  ex- 
periences taught  me  to  weigh  these  effects  be- 
fore giving  free  rein  to  my  enthusiasm.  I  knew 
something  of  the  power  of  the  gas-man  and  of 
the  scenic  painter.  The  same  tricks  I  had  seen 
played  elsewhere  were  being  used  here,  except 
that  this  background  was  the  deep  blue  of  the 
starlit  night,  instead  of  the  canvas  drop  of  the 
stage.  Many  an  architectural  sham,  all  of 
painted  boards  or  deceptive  plaster,  could  be 
concealed,  I  knew,  by  a  well-hung  lantern  or 
the  shadow  of  a  well-draped  flag,  while  minor 
details  could  be  none  the  less  cleverly  managed. 
Only  a  year  before,  in  Vienna,  one  night,  I  had 
seen  my  own  beloved  Venice  so  charmingly  re- 
produced, with  its  canals,  gondolas,  old  palaces, 
and  quaint  streets,  that  1  was  fool  enough  to  be- 
lieve the  very  pigeons  on  the  window-sills  were 
sound  asleep,  until  I  examined  them  the  next 
244 


THE  HUNGARIAN  MILLENNIUM 

day  in  broad  daylight,  and  found  them  but 
lumps  of  painted  clay. 

Yet,  for  all  my  better  judgment,  I  walked  on 
here  at  Buda-Pesth,  looking  about  me  in  won- 
der, gazing  up  at  the  myriads  of  lifeless  flags 
hanging  limp  in  the  soft  night  air,  until  I  found 
myself  opposite  the  little  ticket-kiosk,  beyond 
which  no  human  soul  could  pass  without  paying 
an  admission  fee  —  none  except  beatified  direct- 
ors, royal  families,  and  holders  of  official  passes. 

"  How  many  tickets  shall  I  take  out  of  this 
twenty-mark  gold  piece?"  asked  the  young 
lady,  in  very  good  French. 

"One  this  time,  if  you  please;"  and  I 
passed  in,  with  nineteen  marks  left  in  my 
pocket. 

But  even  though  I  thought  myself  deceived 
by  the  illusions  of  the  night,  I  found  it  impossi- 
ble to  resist  the  fascination  of  further  discovery. 

One  building  puzzled  me,  even  in  the  glam- 
our of  the  twinkling  lights  —  or,  rather,  one 
group  of  buildings.  They  were  built  on  the 
margin  of  the  lake,  and  were  reached  by  a 
sanded  plank  and  painted  portcullis.  The  first 
story  was  genuine  —  at  least  so  I  thought ;  for 
I  am  mechanic  enough  to  know  good  masonry 
when  1  see  it,  even  in  the  dark,  and  the  turn- 
ing of  the  groined  arches,  all  in  honest  red  brick 
245 


THE  HUNGARIAN  MILLENNIUM 

stained  by  age,  savored  more  of  the  trowel  than 
of  the  brush.  But  the  top  courses,  I  was  sure, 
were  of  canvas  and  cheap  boards.  (This  build- 
ing had  its  full  revenge  on  me  the  next  day, 
when  I  caught  the  morning  light  glinting  on  its 
shingles  of  real  slate.) 

I  had  caught,  too,  something  of  the  conta- 
gious humor  of  the  crowd  as  it  wandered  and 
loitered.  I  lingered  with  it  for  a  moment  by  the 
grand  music-stand,  where  sixty  musicians  were 
blowing  and  pounding  away  to  their  hearts'  con- 
tent and  the  listeners'  delight ;  I  mingled,  too, 
with  it  as  it  passed  the  Hall  of  Liberal  Arts  — 
an  immense  building,  its  broad  flights  of  steps 
thronged  with  people  —  and  walked  with  it 
around  a  huge  fountain,  with  its  water-jets 
ablaze  with  color,  and  followed  it  when  it  pressed 
a  passage  into  another  building,  in  which  one 
of  the  innumerable  foreign  congresses  was  hav- 
ing a  banquet. 

I  had  seen  some  of  the  members  of  this  con- 
gress a  few  hours  before  at  the  Hotel  Hungaria, 
in  the  city  proper :  white-bearded  fellows,  most 
of  them,  with  bumps  all  over  their  foreheads, 
deep-set  eyes,  and  hair  cut,  or  uncut,  a  la  Wag- 
ner; some  wearing  glasses,  and  hardly  one  with- 
out a  speck  of  red  or  green  or  blue  in  his  but- 
tonhole —  old  fossils  these  who  had  spent  their 
246 


THE  HUNGARIAN  MILLENNIUM 

lives  in  catching  glimpses  of  stars  that  had  been 
dodging  for  ages  behind  planets  or  careering 
through  space.  And  younger  ones,  too,  with 
inflamed  eyes  and  gaunt  faces,  who  had  choked 
half  the  vitality  out  of  their  bodies  by  noxious 
smells  and  compounds. 

They  were  all  here  inside  this  building  when 
1  came  upon  them,  but  they  were  not  peering 
through  telescopes  nor  bending  over  retorts. 
On  the  contrary,  they  were  listening  to  some 
high  dignitary  of  Buda-Pesth,  who  was  telling 
them  how  proud  and  happy  it  made  the  Buda- 
Pesthers  (that 's  my  coinage)  to  welcome  them 
to  the  heart  of  Hungary.  He  had  told  the  same 
thing,  it  is  true,  in  slightly  different  phrases, 
every  week  for  months,  to  dozens  of  other  con- 
gresses, representing  every  known  science  and 
craft,  from  biology  to  market-gardening ;  but 
to-night,  as  if  the  welcome  were  entirely  new, 
every  member  of  the  present  body  rose  and 
cried,  "Hear!  hear!"  (each  one  in  his  own 
tongue) ,  and  drank  bumpers  of  champagne,  and 
sat  down  again  to  listen,  now  to  a  Herr  Pro- 
fessor from  Dresden,  now  to  some  Don  from 
Madrid,  replying  in  French  — that  language  suit- 
ing best  the  largest  number  of  delegates  —  ex- 
pressing an  undying  sense,  etc.,  etc.,  and  the 
never-to-be-forgottens,  etc.,  etc.,  common  to 
247 


THE  HUNGARIAN  MILLENNIUM 

such  occasions.  And  the  crowd  with  which  I 
had  forced  a  way  into  the  galleries  cheered  too, 
in  its  gay,  impulsive  way,  while  I  caught  the 
humor  again  and  waved  my  own  handkerchief 
as  I  clung  to  a  pillar  and  looked  on. 

Nobody  below  waved  back  to  me  in  return, 
moved  up  as  if  to  make  room,  filled  a  flagon, 
nor  did  anything  else  in  my  honor;  and  so, 
feeling  myself  for  the  second  time  that  night 
but  an  observer  of  happy  people's  pleasure,  I 
wedged  my  way  down  again  and  out  into  the 
fairy-like  scene,  and  stopped  at  an  open-air  cafe 
—  Gerbeaud's  Royal  Pavilion  —  a  cafe  more 
gorgeous  than  any  I  had  seen  ;  all  garden,  with 
palms  and  flowering  plants,  dotted  here  and 
there  with  small  tables  sheltered  by  enormous 
lace  parasols,  under  which  one  could  sit  and  sip 
ices  and  coffee,  besides  no  end  of  queer  concoc- 
tions known  only  to  the  Magyars.  The  pavilion 
itself,  with  its  fine  portico  and  spacious  wings, 
its  dining-rooms,  great  and  small,  and  its  veran- 
das enclosed  by  glass,  filled  one  end  of  the  gar- 
den. The  waiter  told  me  in  whispers  that  the 
Emperor  comes  here,  and  the  Archduke  and 
Duchess,  and  pointed  out  the  very  chairs  in 
which  his  Majesty  sits.  When  the  bill  for  one 
ice  and  one  glass  of  plain  water  was  presented, 
I  realized  how  good  it  must  be  to  reign,  a 
248 


THE  HUNGARIAN  MILLENNIUM 

potentate  with  unlimited  power  to  levy  taxes ; 
for  no  ordinary  exchequer  could  stand  the  strain 
were  a  man  really  hungry. 

All  that  had  saved  me  from  utter  bankruptcy 
—  this  being  a  cafe  in  the  exhibition,  not  in  the 
city  —  had  been  my  natural  antipathy  to  eating 
anything  dropped  alive  and  kicking  over  burn- 
ing coals.  For  the  head  waiter,  to  tempt  me  as 
I  came  in,  had  passed  in  front  of  me  with  a  live 
thing  flopping  on  a  plate,  —  it  was  a  fish  this 
time,  just  out  of  the  water,  —  and  had  stopped 
just  long  enough  to  allow  me  a  rapid  glance  at 
its  beauty.  I  at  first  supposed  that  some  lucky 
line  had  but  a  moment  before  drawn  it  strug- 
gling from  the  lake,  and  that  it  was  being  taken 
to  die  elsewhere.  It  was  only  when  I  overheard 
the  minute  instructions  for  its  immediate  and 
proper  serving  —  it  was  handed  to  an  epicure  at 
the  next  table  to  mine  —  that  I  was  undeceived, 
and  it  was  not  long  before  I  discovered  that 
such  fish  formed  one  of  the  chief  attractions  of 
the  place.  I  then  began  to  watch,  from  where 
I  sat,  the  small  boy  who,  in  the  centre  of  the 
cafe,  presided  over  the  fountain  under  the  blaz- 
ing gas-jets,  dipping  his  net  into  the  marble-lined 
pool,  chasing  the  dodging  fish  round  and  round, 
until  some  unlucky  victim  of  the  right  size 
slipped  into  the  mesh,  and  was  flopped  wriggling 
249 


THE  HUNGARIAN  MILLENNIUM 

on  a  plate.  The  sight  had  rather  dulled  my 
appetite.  It  was  as  if  some  one  had  driven 
in  a  spring  lamb  and  had  asked  me  to  carve 
out  a  brace  of  chops  while  the  little  fellow 
waited.  I  had  the  curiosity,  however,  to  in- 
quire the  price  of  this  gastronomical  luxury.  It 
equalled  that  of  two  bottles  of  Extra  Dry  — 
the  price  being  the  same  to  commoners  and  to 
kings  ! 

The  night  sped  on,  the  fascination  of  study- 
ing a  new  life  still  holding  me.  The  lake  was 
alive  with  boats,  the  bands  were  never  out  of  one 
another's  hearing,  and  the  crowds  were  surging 
everywhere. 

When  the  big  bell  sounded  for  closing,  the 
people  instantly  obeyed,  and  the  stream  of 
sightseers  turned  and  began  to  flow  back  to  the 
gate. 

Then  came  the  rush  for  the  underground 
electric  railway,  one  of  its  stations  being  almost 
opposite  the  main  entrance  of  the  exposition. 
These  stations  are  small  houses,  fifteen  by 
twenty  feet  square,  and  resting  on  the  side- 
walk. Once  inside,  you  descend  a  flight  of 
stone  steps  leading  to  an  underground  room, 
lined,  as  I  have  said  before,  with  white  tiles, 
the  frieze  and  dado  of  majolica  in  rich  colors. 
There  are  comfortable  seats  against  the  wall 
250 


THE  HUNGARIAN  MILLENNIUM 

for  waiting  passengers,  and  double  gates,  of 
spirally  turned  iron  with  brass  ornaments,  pro- 
tecting the  farther  end.  Across  the  double- 
tracked  road  is  another  tiled  room  protected  by 
similar  gates.  These  two  sets  of  double  gates 
make  a  kind  of  pound,  in  which  thirty-two 
passengers  are  corralled,  as  it  were,  or  a  less 
number  if  some  of  the  car  seats  are  occupied. 
When  a  train  stops,  the  middle  door  of  the  car 
slides  back,  and  the  contents  of  the  pound  walk 
leisurely  aboard.  There  is  no  crowding  and  no 
jostling.  There  are  no  bent  elbows  aimed  at 
your  waistband,  no  hanging  to  straps,  no  mak- 
ing half  a  parenthesis  of  your  body  that  a  stout 
woman  with  a  basket  may  pass  while  you  still 
keep  tight  hold  of  your  overhead  brace.  Every 
passenger  has  a  wide  and  comfortable  seat, 
cushioned  with  velvet.  The  cars  themselves 
are  of  mahogany  or  hard-wood  ;  the  lights  are 
brilliant ;  the  road-bed  as  smooth  as  a  floor. 
Each  car  starts  as  gently  as  a  yacht  with  loos- 
ened sails,  and  slows  down  without  a  tremor. 
The  movement  known  as  the  "Third  Avenue 
Cable  Jerk,"  with  the  passengers  shot  into  one 
end  of  the  car  like  the  contents  of  a  steamer 
trunk  on  a  rough  night  at  sea,  is  unknown.  The 
ventilation  is  perfect,  for  there  is  no  smoke,  and 
consequently  no  smell.  In  fine,  it  is  the  poetry 
251 


THE  HUNGARIAN  MILLENNIUM 

of  motion  on  wheels,  smooth  as  a  gondola,  and 
almost  as  noiseless. 

My  train  stopped  within  a  few  blocks  of  the 
"  Hungaria  "  — there  are  underground  stations 
all  up  and  down  the  Andrassy-ut.  The  white- 
bearded  scientists  with  bumps  on  their  fore- 
heads, and  the  younger  ones  with  inflamed 
eyes,  had  already  arrived,  and  were  gathered 
together  in  jovial  groups  in  the  hotel's  spacious 
corridor.  They  had  evidently  dined  well,  for 
some  were  without  any  very  definite  or  helpful 
vertebras,  and  others  had  apparently  lost  the 
use  of  the  knee-joint.  Many  of  the  younger 
ones,  while  they  lacked  a  certain  directness  of 
vision,  had  gained  immeasurably  in  volume  of 
voice,  and  were,  at  the  moment  of  my  arrival, 
engaged  in  rehearsing  their  several  national  airs. 
Scattered  about  were  the  generous  Buda-Pesth- 
ers,  — every  man  as  straight  as  a  ramrod. 

The  hospitality  of  the  Magyars  is  proverbial. 
So  are  their  staying  powers.  The  only  things 
ever  under  their  tables  are  the  empty  bottles, 
and  now  and  then  a  guest. 

II 

The  purpose  of  the  founders  of  this  National 
Millennium  Exhibition  is  best  expressed,  per- 
haps, in  the  words  of  Minister  Lukacs,  Minister 
252 


THE  HUNGARIAN  MILLENNIUM 

of  Commerce  (do  not  for  one  moment  suppose 
the  translation  is  mine  !)  :  — 

"The  government  (he  says)  will  take  care 
that  the  national  work  be  exhibited  in  a  worthy 
frame,  so  as  to  further  the  interest  of  the  ex- 
hibitors. May  every  one  of  you,  its  subjects, 
therefore  show  what  he  is  able  to  attain  by  his 
diligence,  his  taste,  and  his  inventive  faculty. 
Let  us  all,  in  fact,  compete  —  we  who  are  work- 
ing, some  with  our  brains,  others  with  our  hands, 
and  others  with  our  machines  —  like  one  man 
for  the  fatherland. 

"  This  will  be  a  rare  family  festival,  the  equal 
of  which  has  not  been  granted  to  many  nations. 
Let  the  people  gather,  then,  round  our  august 
ruler,  who  has  guided  our  country  with  fatherly 
care  and  wisdom  in  the  benevolent  ways  of 
peace  to  the  heights  which  mark  the  progress 
of  to-day,  and  who  —  a  faithful  keeper  of  the 
glorious  past  of  a  thousand  years  —  has  led  the 
Hungarian  people  to  the  threshold  of  a  still  more 
splendid  thousand  years  to  come  !  " 

There  was  no  question  about  the  response  of 
the  people.  Simultaneously  with  the  opening 
ceremonies,  thanksgiving  services  were  held  in 
the  different  churches  throughout  the  empire. 
Gala  performances  were  afterward  given  at  the 
theatres  and  opera-houses,  the  programmes  of 
253 


THE  HUNGARIAN  MILLENNIUM 

which  included  dramas,  plays,  and  operas,  writ- 
ten for  the  occasion  by  Hungarian  dramatists 
and  composers,  while  regattas,  races,  and  sports 
of  all  kinds  came  in  quick  succession.  In  addi- 
tion to  these  merrymakings  a  series  of  con- 
gresses assembled,  with  representatives  from 
all  parts  of  the  world,  many  coming  from  the 
United  States.  These  special  congresses  suc- 
ceeded one  another  in  rapid  succession,  and  were 
attended  by  journalists,  historians,  actors,  tour- 
ists, athletes,  as  well  as  philanthropists,  scien- 
tists, and  engineers. 

The  interest  evinced  in  the  exhibition  itself, 
as  well  as  in  each  of  its  many  features,  extended 
all  over  the  empire.  Not  only  from  Buda-Pesth, 
but  from  all  the  country  districts  the  peasants, 
as  well  as  the  nobility  and  gentry,  gathered  to 
enjoy  it.  In  its  provision  for  these  peasants,  the 
direction,  backed  by  the  government,  showed 
great  liberality  and  forethought.  It  maintained 
that  as  this  exhibition  was  for  the  education  of 
the  people,  poverty  must  not  prevent  their  en- 
joyment of  the  privilege.  Special  accommoda- 
tions were  accordingly  provided  for  the  pea 
sants;  railroad  fares  were  reduced  or  abolished 
altogether,  and  arrangements  were  made  by 
which  a  peasant  living  within  a  hundred  miles  of 
Buda-Pesth  could  visit  the  exhibition,  be  fed, 
254 


THE  HUNGARIAN  MILLENNIUM 

lodged,  and  conducted  through  the  grounds  and 
buildings  by  competent  guides,  for  the  space  of 
two  days  and  nights,  at  an  expense  of  five  flor- 
ins all  told,  or  about  two  dollars  of  our  money. 
Moreover,  pupils  of  schools  and  teachers  were 
given  free  passes,  with  all  living  expenses  paid, 
it  being  considered  important  that  no  educator 
in  Hungary  should  miss  the  exhibition  for  want 
of  means  to  see  it.  These  privileges  existed  dur- 
ing the  entire  life  of  the  exhibition,  which  lasted 
for  six  months,  and  which  was  visited  by  nearly 
four  millions  of  people. 

It  is  seldom  one  sees  such  patriotism  allied 
to  such  progress  ;  for  although  Hungary  is  cel- 
ebrating its  one-thousandth  anniversary,  Buda- 
Pesth  itself  was  not  born  until  1872.  Ancient 
Buda,  on  the  right  bank  of  the  Danube,  remem- 
bers many  centuries,  it  is  true,  and  the  modest 
little  town  named  Pesth,  on  the  left  bank,  has 
also  seen  many  years.  But  the  united,  splen- 
did, modern  city  of  Buda-Pesth,  with  its  pre- 
sent population  of  over  six  hundred  thousand 
inhabitants,  is  really  but  twenty-five  years  old. 

Neither  can  there  be  any  question  of  the  way 
in  which  the  lovers  of  Buda-Pesth  regard  their 
city.  Listen  to  Alexander  Brody,  a  distinguished 
Hungarian  author  (again  some  one  else  trans- 
lates —  please  remember  this) :  — 

255 


THE  HUNGARIAN  MILLENNIUM 

"  I  liken  Buda-Pesth  to  a  beautiful  woman, 
fascinating  and  spirituelle,  and  it  is  to  the  beau- 
tiful women  of  Buda-Pesth  that  I  pay  homage. 
The  capital  abounds  with  them,  of  all  sorts  and 
conditions.  At  times  it  seems  to  me  that  some 
one  must  have  collected  and  selected  all  the  va- 
rious types  of  beauty  of  the  world  and  congre- 
gated them  here  in  our  city  streets  and  subur- 
ban walks.  ...  I  have  occasionally  gone  in 
search  of  their  less  favored  sisters,  the  ugly 
ones  ;  but  they  are  conspicuous  by  their  absence, 
and  so  too  are  the  thin  and  the  pale.  .  .  . 

"  We  Hungarians  are  a  new  people.  We  are 
moral,  young,  interesting,  and  peculiar.  We 
have  much  to  show  in  the  way  of  sights,  and 
we  are  rich  in  things  the  study  of  which  would 
amply  repay  the  trouble  bestowed.  Our  actors 
are  geniuses  ;  our  press  is  versatile  ;  our  public 
statues  are  lamentably  bad  ;  every  second  house 
is  a  restaurant  or  cafe,  which  we  are  incessantly 
abusing  ;  and  yet,  as  far  as  eating  and  drinking 
are  concerned,  there  is  no  place  to  equal  Buda- 
Pesth  in  the  excellence  and  cheapness  of  its  cui- 
sine. Such  is  the  sober  and  industrious  Hunga- 
rian metropolis,  immersed  in  popular  song  and 
drowned  in  the  clash  of  its  gypsy  music." 

I  admire  the  distinguished  author's  enthusi- 
asm, but  I  cannot  agree  with  his  statement  that 
256 


THE  HUNGARIAN  MILLENNIUM 

there  are  no  "thin  and  pale  "  countenances  to 
be  seen  among  these  women.  I  must  in  all  sin- 
cerity draw  another  picture.  I  caught  its  out- 
lines, not  in  one  of  the  crowded  cafes  or  along 
the  Boulevard  or  down  by  the  side  of  the  blue 
Danube,  but  up  a  back  street  in  one  of  the  new 
quarters  of  the  rapidly  growing  city.  I  had  seen 
the  same  sight  in  Bucharest  the  day  before,  and 
knew  what  it  meant.  Brick  and  mortar,  and  the 
many  ways  of  lifting  them  up  and  down,  have 
always  interested  me.  I  know  the  slow,  mea- 
sured tread  of  big,  red-shirted  Pat,  as  he  clum- 
sily climbs  the  vertical  ladder,  the  hod  on  his 
shoulder,  and  can  still  hear  from  the  bricklayers 
above  the  cry  of  "  Mort  "  sifting  down  between 
the  unfloored  beams  of  the  several  stories.  I 
know,  too,  the  more  modern  hoist,  where  a  turn 
of  the  lever  sends  both  brick  and  mortar  flying 
skyward  to  the  scaffolding  overhead.  But  a  girl 
of  sixteen  and  a  grayhaired  woman  of  sixty 
were  new  types  of  brick  and  mortar  carriers  to 
me.  And  not  in  one  place  alone,  but  wherever 
a  building  is  in  course  of  construction. 

Narrow  platforms  instead  of  ladders  are  made 
for  them,  running  zigzag  up  the  outside  scaf- 
folding. The  mortar  (all  mixed  by  women) 
is  dumped  into  a  tub,  a  pole  is  thrust  through 
the  handles,  swung  over  the  shoulders  of  two 
257 


THE  HUNGARIAN  MILLENNIUM 

women,  and  the  weary  climbing  to  the  top  be- 
gins. I  saw  one  dark-eyed,  barefooted  girl, — 
she  was  pale  and  thin  enough,  —  clothed  only 
in  a  skirt  and  chemise,  rest  the  tub  for  a  mo- 
ment at  the  first  landing  and  press  her  hand  to 
her  side  as  if  in  great  pain,  the  older  one  wait- 
ing for  her  patiently. 

With  all  its  beauty,  dash,  and  enthusiasm, 
it  must  be  a  curious  civilization  which  tolerates 
and  makes  possible  a  sight  like  this.  It  made 
my  blood  run  cold  and  hot.  It  was  as  if  one  had 
ploughed  with  a  fawn. 

But  this  custom,  hideous  as  it  is,  cannot,  I 
think,  be  counted  for  many  more  years  against 
these  people.  Their  progress  in  social  order  is 
too  marked,  let  us  hope,  to  permit  of  a  long  con- 
tinuance of  this  degradation. 

Ill 

I  have  seen  nearly  all  the  great  exhibitions 
of  the  last  twenty  years,  but  never  in  any  of 
them  such  order  and  such  cleanliness  as  pre- 
vailed in  this.  I  was  prepared,  after  my  hurried 
night  inspection,  to  be  a  little  critical,  my  enthu- 
siasm of  the  night  before  having  led  me  so  far 
the  other  way.  But  there  was  nothing  tawdry 
to  be  seen  :  nothing  that  the  impartial  light  of 
the  next  day  revealed  to  me  as  a  disappointment, 
258 


VARIED   TYPES   OF   HUNGARIAN   ARCHITECTURE. 


THE  HUNGARIAN  MILLENNIUM 

or  to  which  the  night  and  its  shadows  had  lent 
a  charm  the  sunshine  stole. 

Broad  and  shaded  walks,  perfectly  swept  and 
watered,  separated  the  several  pavilions  and 
structures.  Only  in  the  historical  group  did  one 
see  any  massing  of  buildings.  This  group  in- 
cluded three  wonderful  palaces,  connected  to- 
gether, and  illustrating  varied  types  of  Hungarian 
architecture  —  the  pointed  arch,  the  Renais- 
sance, and  the  rococo.  It  was  reached  by  a 
bridge  on  stone  piers,  thrown  across  an  arm  of 
the  lake,  and  connecting  with  the  portcullis  of 
the  nearest  building.  It  had  all  the  appearance 
of  having  stood  there  for  centuries,  and  of  be- 
ing able  to  stand  for  as  many  more.  Not  only 
had  a  genuine  antique  finish  been  added,  but  all 
those  telltale  chippings  of  mortar  and  "staff," 
showing  the  grinning  laths,  had  been  here  care- 
fully avoided,  which  at  the  close  of  our  own 
World's  Fair  revealed  only  too  clearly  theephem- 
eral  nature  of  the  construction  of  almost  every 
building.  From  bed-stone  to  weather-vane  this 
historical  group  had  the  air  of  hoary  age,  quite 
as  if  lichens  grew  in  the  cracks,  and  lizards 
darted  in  and  out  of  the  fissures.  It  is  the  work 
of  the  Hungarian  architect  Ignacz  Alpar,  the 
genius  of  the  exhibition. 

Externally  it  presented  not  the  slightest  evi- 

259 


THE  HUNGARIAN  MILLENNIUM 

dence  of  its  hasty  construction,  nor  did  it  sug- 
gest a  temporary  use.  The  parts  intended  as 
permanent  could  not  be  distinguished  from  the 
painted  shams,  so  skilfully  had  the  architect 
done  his  work. 

No  haste  was  apparent  in  the  workmanship 
of  the  other  buildings ;  every  structure  of  impor- 
tance looked  as  if  it  had  taken  years  to  build, 
and  had  only  been  improved  by  careful  delay. 

As  I  idled  on  through  shady  walks,  two  other 
pavilions  came  into  view  :  the  Hall  of  Industry 
filled  with  exhibits  of  furniture,  ceramics,  and 
glass,  besides  manufactures  of  leather,  woven 
fabrics,  jewelry,  domestic  and  decorative  arts, 
and  the  pavilion  of  Bosnia  and  Herzegovina,  a 
perfectly  proportioned  building,  rich  in  color, 
and  of  exquisite  Oriental  design,  containing  the 
manufactures  of  those  provinces. 

And  the  other  exhibits  were  no  less  interest- 
ing than  the  structures  which  housed  them. 
They  were  of  course  wholly  Hungarian,  no  for- 
eign products  or  manufactures  having  been  ad- 
mitted. Even  the  special  capacities  of  their 
enormous  rolling-mills  could  easily  be  judged  by 
a  glance  at  an  enormous  steel  rail,  measuring  in 
length,  I  should  think,  some  seventy-five  feet, 
and  rolled  at  one  heat ;  a  huge  steam-plough,  and 
a  monster  locomotive  designed  for  climbing  steep 
260 


THE  HUNGARIAN  MILLENNIUM 

mountain  grades.  There  were,  also,  every  va- 
riety of  equipage,  tons  of  beet  sugar,  coal,  ore, 
and  soap,  miles  of  cloth,  yarn,  and  silk,  hogs- 
heads of  wine,  and  bushels  of  every  grain  that 
could  grow  on  a  stalk ;  but  the  seventy-five 
foot  steel  rail  in  one  piece  told  a  story  of  the 
capacity  and  accompaniments  of  furnace,  rolls, 
and  hammers  that  set  at  rest  all  preconceived 
notions  of  the  primitiveness  of  these  people. 

I  came,  too,  upon  the  customary  fountain, 
common  to  all  exhibitions  of  this  class.  Here  it 
was  treated  in  a  novel  and  somewhat  interest- 
ing way. 

It  was  erected  in  the  open  space  fronting  the 
Hall  of  Industry.  From  an  enormous  basin  of 
water  rose  a  huge  pile  of  rough  rocks  heaped 
together  in  pieces  varying  in  size  from  that  of 
a  piano  to  that  of  a  chair.  Life-size  figures  of 
nymphs,  mermaids,  water-sprites,  and  sea-gods, 
cast  in  imitation  of  bronze,  clambered  in  and  out 
among  the  rocks.  Over  these  grotesque  and 
sometimes  picturesque  figures  great  jets  of  wa- 
ter were  constantly  thrown.  At  night,  when  the 
spray  was  tinted  with  many-colored  electric 
lights,  these  figures  looked  like  elves  and  sprites 
peering  out  of  the  red  glare  of  a  Christmas  pan- 
tomime. 

The  Museum  of  Fine  Arts  — no  exhibition 
261 


THE  HUNGARIAN  MILLENNIUM 

is  complete  without  one  —  stood  outside  the 
main  entrance.  We  on  our  side  of  the  water 
know  of  course  the  work  of  Munkacsy  and  his 
pupils,  but  it  would  surprise  and  delight  our 
students  and  connoisseurs  to  wander  through 
these  spacious  galleries  and  see  how  many 
other  interesting  painters  are  to  be  found  in 
Hungary.  Their  names,  unfortunately,  are  al- 
most all  unpronounceable,  and  to  me  unspell- 
able,  but  their  paint-signatures  are  as  plain  as 
print  to  any  one  who  can  recognize  a  new  touch 
and  the  beginning  of  a  new  school  as  distinct 
and  individual  as  the  Russian  or  Swedish. 
One  of  these  painters  —  Arpad  Feszty  —  had 
painted  a  panorama  representing  the  first  inva- 
sion of  the  earlier  tribes,  and  produced  a  sky 
so  luminous  and  apparently  so  many  miles  in 
depth  that  it  is  impossible  for  the  observer  who 
stands  on  the  circular  platform  and  looks  out, 
to  realize  that  a  live  swallow  sailing  into  the 
deep  azure  would  necessarily  dash  his  brains 
out  against  the  painted  canvas  in  a  flight  of 
less  than  twenty  feet. 

Altogether  the  Millennial  Exhibition  of  the 
Hungarians  carried  a  lesson  well  worth  the  study- 
ing. As  a  record  of  a  people  whose  whole  history 
has  been  one  long  struggle  for  independence, 
262 


THE  HUNGARIAN  MILLENNIUM 

and  who  have  so  recently  attained,  if  not  com- 
plete autonomy,  certainly  the  right  to  manage 
their  internal  affairs  in  their  own  way,  without 
paying  too  high  for  the  privilege,  it  showed  un- 
paralleled native  skill  united  to  marvellous  in- 
telligence. 

Everything  had  been  done  in  a  thoroughly 
substantial  way,  without  any  straining  after 
cheap  and  bizarre  effects.  Whatever  had  been 
attempted,  whether  in  the  reproduction  of  some 
famous  cloister  loved  by  the  nation,  or  the  door- 
way of  a  well-known  castle  revered  in  their  tra- 
ditions, had  been  made  as  genuine  as  the  re- 
strictions of  expense  would  permit,  the  object 
having  been  to  create  a  reproduction  which 
would  afford  pleasure  and  profit  to  peasant  and 
savant  alike. 

The  strongest  impression  produced  upon  me 
was  that  of  the  earnest,  honest  effort  shown  by 
the  government  and  its  agents  to  make  the  ex- 
position helpful  to  the  people  themselves,  not 
only  as  an  educational  factor,  but  as  proving  to 
them  how  important  in  all  that  pertains  to  the 
liberal  arts  is  their  position  among  nations,  and 
how  marvellous  has  been  their  progress  since 
their  real  freedom  began. 

The  two  strong  notes  I  felt  were  the  paternal 
and  the  patriotic. 

263 


THE  HUNGARIAN  MILLENNIUM 

IV 

Of  course  there  was  still  another  department 

—  there  always  is  at  every  well-regulated  ex- 
hibition, whether  centennial  or  millennial.   This 
was  the  department  of  the  nondescript,  the  un- 
classified, and  the  heterogeneous.  With  us  it 
was  known  as  the  Midway  Plaisance  ;  at  Buda- 
Pesth  it  had  the  suggestive  name  of  Os-Buda- 
var. 

Here  was  a  department  of  astounding  wooden 
houses,  cardboard  mosques,  and  unlimited  cafes 

—  the  kind  where  the  pine  tables  are  constantly 
wet  with  beer,  and  the  same  mugs  do  for  all 
day  with  but  a  single  dip  in  water.   The  en- 
trance was  through  a  gate  —  a  conglomerate 
mass  of  turrets,  portcullis,  bastions,  massive 
canvas  masonry,  and  painted  bricks.  Once  in- 
side and  the  hurdy-gurdy  began. 

There  were  imitation  Turks,  with  fez  and 
baggy  trousers  ;  there  were  imitation  Venetian 
gondoliers,  male  and  female  this  time,  with 
Neapolitan  caps  and  Tyrolean  skirts ;  there 
were  Turkish  smoking-rooms,  with  rugs  and 
nargiles  on  sale  at  moderate  prices,  attended 
by  houris  speaking  pure  Hungarian  ;  there  was 
a  mosque  in  imitation  of  nothing  on  earth  in 
which  a  Mussulman  ever  said  his  prayers  —  a 
264 


THE  HUNGARIAN  MILLENNIUM 

bare  interior  with  a  wainscoting  of  stencilled 
tiles  and  walls  of  canvas,  with  make-believe 
Orientals  squatting  on  mats.  There  were  side- 
shows concealed  by  a  carpet  curtain,  outside  of 
which  stood  a  Nubian  or  a  New  Zealander  or 
a  Hindoo,  just  as  the  management  determined, 
one  and  the  same  swarthy  Magyar  doing  ser- 
vice for  all  during  the  season  ;  he  brandished 
a  scimitar  one  day  and  beat  a  tomtom  the  next, 
while  every  and  all  day  he  cried  aloud  the  vir- 
tues and  attractions  of  the  performance  within. 
There  was  Madame  Aultightz,  the  marvellous 
Polish  beauty,  whose  sole  costume  was  a  suit 
of  stockinet  without  a  wrinkle,  buttoning  under 
her  chin,  around  her  wrists,  and  below  her 
ankles,  and  who  did  Venuses  and  nymphs,  but 
drew  the  line  at  draped  Victories  and  Milos. 
There  was  also  Herr  Dubblejawnts,  the  Aus- 
trian contortionist,  who  twisted  his  legs  and 
arms  around  his  neck  until  the  whole  looked 
like  a  tinted  diagram  in  a  medical  book.  And 
there  were,  besides,  dozens  of  other  marvellous 
and  wonderful  sights,  especially  appealing  to 
the  wide-eyed,  open-mouthed  peasants,  who 
wandered  about  hand  in  hand  in  groups  of  ten 
or  twelve,  in  their  rough,  homespun,  home- 
made clothes,  escorted  by  an  officer  of  the  army 
in  faultless  uniform  and  white  gloves,  who 
265 


THE  HUNGARIAN  MILLENNIUM 

explained  to  each  one  the  several  objects  of  in- 
terest with  as  much  patience  and  kindness  as 
if  the  court  itself  had  been  under  his  personal 
protection. 

Cheap  shams  and  tawdry  buildings  were 
everywhere,  until  I  came  to  one  place  which 
seemed  dirty  and  sloppy  enough  to  be  genuine. 
This  was  the  Congo  village  with  its  villagers. 
The  settlement  had  been  made  in  an  enclosure 
by  itself,  fenced  off  from  the  non-paying  outside 
world  by  a  high  Robinson  Crusoe  stockade. 
Once  inside,  and  the  delusion  was  as  complete 
as  if  one  had  landed  from  Stanley's  launch  with 
the  laudable  object  of  exchanging  beads  and 
whiskey  for  elephants'  tusks. 

The  village  had  been  built  in  a  grove  cover- 
ing an  acre  or  more,  and  was  enriched  by  a  great 
mud-puddle  in  the  middle.  About  its  shores  and 
against  the  Robinson  Crusoe  stockade  was  a 
collection  of  huts,  exactly  like  those  we  used  to 
see  in  old  geographies.  Outside  their  doorways 
squatted  the  natives.  There  was  no  question 
about  their  race  or  their  nationality  ;  there  was 
no  possible  chance  for  concealment  —  they  wore 
too  few  clothes,  the  children  wearing  none. 
They  were  veritable  Congo  negroes  —  big  lips, 
nose-rings,  and  all. 

When  I  entered,  a  dozen  or  more  were  seated 
266 


THE  HUNGARIAN  MILLENNIUM 

in  a  row  on  rude  benches.  They  were  singing 
a  low  chant,  keeping  time  to  the  beats  of  half 
a  dozen  tomtoms  made  of  gourds  and  tight- 
stretched  skins.  In  front  was  a  young  negro, 
naked  except  for  a  breech-clout  —  a  fellow  beau- 
tifully formed,  colored  like  a  brierwood  pipe, 
and  straight  as  an  arrow.  He  held  in  his  hand 
a  few  green  leaves,  something  like  leaves  of 
corn.  These  he  waved  over  his  head,  his  feet 
moving  in  unison  with  the  weird  music,  his 
body  swaying  gracefully.  He  was  singing  a 
song,  of  which  my  dear  friend  Glave  would, 
I  know,  have  understood  every  word.  Beside 
him  walked  a  stalwart  negro,  much  older,  and 
of  heavier  build.  About  this  man's  body  was 
wrapped  a  square  of  calico  as  large  as  a  bed- 
spread ;  this  he  kept  winding  and  unwinding, 
wearing  it  now  like  a  toga,  or  now  trailing  it  in 
the  dust. 

All  over  the  grounds  were  the  other  natives, 
peacefully  pursuing  their  several  avocations. 
One  young  mother  had  just  girded  her  square 
of  calico  about  her  waist,  and,  with  her  little 
black  baby  —  black  as  India-rubber  —  glued  to 
her  shiny  back,  had  seized  a  rude  axe  (the  same 
one  sees  in  a  museum),  and  bending  over,  had 
begun  chopping  the  wood  for  the  evening  fire. 
The  little  tot,  without  other  support,  stuck  to 
267 


THE  HUNGARIAN  MILLENNIUM 

its  mother's  skin,  holding  on  to  the  crinkling 
flesh,  twisting  its  head  to  right  and  left  to  keep 
its  equilibrium,  while  the  mother  apparently 
took  as  little  notice  of  its  efforts  as  if  it  had 
been  a  securely  strapped  papoose. 

While  her  arms  swung  the  axe,  I  could  see 
that  her  feet  kept  time  to  the  music  of  the  tom- 
tom. As  she  caught  my  eye  she  smiled,  and 
chopped  away  the  harder,  but  she  could  not 
avoid  an  occasional  double-shuffle. 

When  I  put  a  small  coin  into  the  baby's  fist, 
she  threw  down  the  axe  and  ran  towards  her 
husband,  who  was  crouched  over  a  heap  of  coals, 
the  baby  bouncing  up  and  down  like  a  loosened 
knapsack  on  a  flying  soldier.  The  man  raised 
himself  erect,  and  with  one  finger  gouged  the 
coin  from  the  child's  hand  as  if  he  had  been 
opening  an  oyster,  bit  it,  and  bent  over  in  thank- 
ful obeisance  until  his  forehead  touched  the 
ground.  Then  he  regained  his  seat  among  the 
embers,  the  smokecurlingup  between  his  knees. 
When  I  drew  closer  I  found  that  he  had  just  fin- 
ished anointing  his  mahogany  legs  with  some 
kind  of  hot  oil,  and  was  now  hard  at  work  put- 
ting on  a  piano  finish  with  the  palms  of  his 
hands. 

Here  at  last  was  the  savage  untouched  by 
civilization,  unspoiled  by  the  isms  and  fallacies 
268 


THE  HUNGARIAN  MILLENNIUM 

of  nineteenth -century  progress  !  Here  were 
simplicity  and  primeval  human  nature  !  In  the 
midst  of  the  shams  of  Os-Budavar  the  entire 
genuineness  of  the  whole  place  was  refreshing. 

My  attendant  joined  me  at  this  moment  — 
my  guide,  in  fact  —  and  shook  hands  with  the 
Congo  man.  Then,  noticing  the  African  shiv- 
ering with  cold,  this  conversation  took  place,  in 
plain,  unvarnished  English,  — 

"Pretty  cold,  John,  isn't  it?"  said  my 
guide. 

"  Cold  !  —  I  dinkey  so  —  damn  cold  !  "  re- 
plied the  Congo  man. 

"  You  speak  English  ?  "  I  asked,  in  astonish- 
ment, of  the  Congo  man. 

"Yes,  me  speakee." 

"  Who  taught  you  ?  " 

"  De  good  missionary  at  home,  he  teachee 
me." 

I  had  been  mistaken,  the  stamp  of  civilization 
was  on  him  too ! 

On  my  way  back  to  the  Underground  Elec- 
tric Railway  that  afternoon  I  fell  in  with  another 
congress.  One  could  hardly  help  falling  in  with 
some  of  them,  they  were  so  scattered.  The 
dinner  this  time  had  been  in  the  middle  of  the 
day,  and  they  were  once  more  in  search  of  the 
269 


THE  HUNGARIAN  MILLENNIUM 

Hungaria.  Their  Magyar  hosts  were  doing  the 
piloting,  —  straight  as  gendarmes  and  as  sober. 

Far  into  the  night,  from  my  room  under  the 
roof,  I  could  hear  the  voices  of  these  congress- 
men singing  their  national  songs. 

The  Magyars  alone  were  silent :  they  were 
on  duty. 

Their  singing  days  would  begin  when  the 
fair  was  over. 


270 


A  BULGARIAN  OPERA  BOUFFE 

HE  was  a  small  waiter  with  a  slightly  bald 
head,  and  of  no  very  pronounced  nation- 
ality, and  he  spoke  the  fag-ends  of  five  or  six 
languages,  one  of  which,  I  was  delighted  to 
find,  was  my  own. 

These  fragments  he  hurled  continuously  at 
other  waiters  of  more  pronounced  nationalities  — 
French,  German,  Hungarian,  and  the  like  — 
who  were  serving  little  groups  of  Turks,  Rus- 
sians, and  Bulgarians  scattered  about  the  coffee- 
room. 

Directly  opposite  me  hung  a  half-length  por- 
trait of  a  broad-shouldered  young  soldier  bris- 
tling with  decorations,  his  firmly  set  features 
surmounted  by  a  military  cap. 

"  Is  that  a  portrait  of  the  prince  ?  "  I  asked. 

The  man  of  many  tongues  stopped,  looked  at 
the  chromo  for  an  instant,  as  though  trying  to 
remember  to  which  one  of  the  late  princes  I  had 
referred,  and  then  said  blandly,  — 

"  Yes,  monsieur ;  the  present  king,  Prince 
Ferdinand." 

271 


A  BULGARIAN  OPERA  BOUFFE 

"Is  he  now  in  Sofia  ?" 

The  slightly  bald  attendant  elevated  his  eye- 
brows with  a  look  of  profound  astonishment. 

"Here?  No,  monsieur." 

"  He  has  really  run  away,  then  ?" 

The  eyebrows  fell,  and  a  short,  pudgy  finger 
was  laid  warningly  against  his  lips. 

"  Monsieur,  nobody  runs  in  Bulgaria.  His 
majesty  is  believed  to  be  in  the  monastery  at 
Ryllo." 

"  Yes,  so  they  tell  me.  But  will  he  ever  come 
back  here  ?  " 

The  man  stopped,  gazed  about  him  furtively, 
refilled  my  glass,  bending  so  low  that  his  lips 
almost  touched  my  ear,  and  then  whispered, 
with  a  half  laugh,  — 

"God  knows." 

I  was  not  surprised.  All  Europe  at  that  pre- 
cise moment  was  straining  its  ears  to  catch  a 
more  definite  answer.  The  conundrum  was 
still  going  the  rounds  of  the  diplomats,  and 
the  successful  guesser  was  yet  to  be  heard 
from. 

All  that  was  positively  known  concerning  his 
imperial  highness  was  that  several  weeks  prior 
to  the  time  of  this  writing  he  had  left  his  pal- 
ace at  Sofia,  the  capital  of  Bulgaria,  —  within 
musket-shot  of  where  I  sat,  —  and,  attended  by 
272 


A  BULGARIAN  OPERA  BOUFFE 

a  few  personal  friends,  had  taken  the  midnight 
express  to  Vienna.  From  Vienna  he  had  gone 
to  Carlsbad,  where  for  several  consecutive  weeks 
he  had  subjected  his  royal  person  to  as  many 
indoor  baths  and  as  much  outdoor  exercise  as 
would  entirely  eradicate  the  traces  of  gout  and 
other  princely  evils  absorbed  by  his  kingship 
during  his  few  years'  stay  in  the  capital  of  the 
Bulgarians. 

All  this  time  the  air  had  been  full  of  the  ru- 
mor of  his  abdication.  The  Russian  ambassador 
at  the  court  of  Paris,  Baron  Mohrenheim,  in  an 
interview  granted  to  the  Paris  correspondent  of 
a  St.  Petersburg  paper,  insisted  that  there  was 
no  doubt  that  Ferdinand  had  quitted  Bulgaria 
for  good,  "  his  life  there  being  in  constant 
danger."  While  the  Austrian  ambassador  at 
Constantinople,  Herr  von  Radowitz,  was  re- 
ported to  have  advised  the  Porte  to  postpone 
taking  action  on  the  Bulgarian  Note  for  the 
present,  hinting  at  the  imminent  retirement  of 
the  reigning  prince,  and  a  consequent  solution 
of  impending  difficulties  more  in  harmony  with 
the  purport  of  the  Berlin  Treaty. 

These  announcements  continued,  and  with 
such  persistency  that  the  Bulgarian  prime  min- 
ister, M.  Stamboloff,  deemed  it  necessary  to 
telegraph  to  a  newspaper  correspondent,  "  The 
273 


A  BULGARIAN  OPERA  BOUFFE 

rumors  of  the  prince's  intended  abdication  are 
pure  fabrications." 

More  emphatic  still  was  Ferdinand's  own 
manifesto,  issued  through  the  columns  of  the 
Carlsbad  "  Temps,"  to  the  effect  that  "  while 
there  is  a  great  national  effervescence  going  on 
at  this  moment  in  Bulgaria,  the  Bulgarians  are, 
nevertheless,  free,  and  will  welcome  me  back 
with  rejoicings." 

It  was  while  this  political  "effervescence," 
as  the  prince  was  pleased  to  call  it,  was  at  boil- 
ing point  that  the  royal  liver  grew  torpid  enough 
to  demand  a  change  of  air.  This  torpidity  lasted, 
in  fact,  long  after  the  Carlsbad  doctors  had  pro- 
nounced the  diseased  organ  cured.  You  will 
remember  that  Talleyrand  tried  the  same  ex- 
periment with  similar  results  nearly  a  century 
before. 

Then  one  day  the  prince  turned  up  serenely 
on  the  slopes  of  the  mountains,  dismounted 
like  a  weary  knight,  and  knocked  for  admission 
at  the  monastery  at  Ryllo. 

Being  myself  a  wanderer  in  this  part  of  the 
world,  with  an  eye  for  the  unexpected  and  pic- 
turesque, and  anxious  to  learn  the  exact  situa- 
tion in  Bulgaria,  I  had  hurried  on  from  Buda- 
Pesth,  and  at  high  noon  on  a  broiling  August  day 
274 


A  BULGARIAN  OPERA  BOUFFE 

had  arrived  at  a  way  station  located  in  the  midst 
of  a  vast  sandy  plain.  This  station  the  con- 
ductor informed  me  was  Sofia.  Following  my 
trap  through  a  narrow  door  guarded  by  a  couple 
of  soldiers,  I  delivered  up  my  ticket  and  pass- 
port, crept  under  a  heap  of  dust  propped  up  on 
wheels  and  drawn  by  three  horses  abreast  with 
chair-backs  over  their  hames,  waited  until  a 
Turk,  two  greasy  Roumanians,  —  overcoated 
in  sheepskins  wrong  side  out,  —  and  a  red- 
necktied  priest  had  squeezed  in  beside  me  ;  and 
then  started  off  at  a  full  gallop  to  a  town  two 
miles  away.  Our  sudden  exodus  obliterated  the 
station  in  a  cloud  of  dust,  through  which  the 
Constantinople  express  could  be  seen  slowly 
feeling  its  way. 

The  interview  with  the  waiter  occurred  within 
an  hour  of  my  arrival. 

The  same  afternoon  I  was  abroad  in  the 
streets  of  Sofia  armed  with  such  information  as 
I  had  gathered  from  my  obsequious  attendant. 

In  the  king's  absence  I  would  call  upon  the 
members  of  the  cabinet. 

It  did  not  take  me  many  hours  to  discover 
that  his  Excellency  M.  Stamboloff,  Minister 
President,  was  away  on  a  visit,  presumably  at 
Philippopolis ;  that  the  Minister  of  Justice,  M. 
Salabashoff ,  had  resigned  a  short  time  before ; 
275 


A  BULGARIAN  OPERA  BOUFFE 

that  Doctor  Stransky,  Minister  of  Foreign  Af- 
fairs, had  followed  suit,  the  portfolios  of  both 
being  still  unassigned  ;  that  the  Minister  of  Fi- 
nance was  in  Varna,  the  Minister  of  War,  Colo- 
nel Moutkourov,  in  Vienna.  In  fact,  that  not 
a  single  member  of  the  Bulgarian  government, 
from  the  king  down,  was  to  be  found  at  the  cap- 
ital. The  Bulgarian  government  had  apparently 
absconded.  Not  a  member,  not  a  representative, 
was  to  be  found,  unless  a  gimlet-eyed  man  of 
about  forty,  with  a  forbidding  countenance,  a 
flat  military  cap,  and  a  tight-fitting  white  sur- 
tout  encrusted  with  gilt  buttons,  who  answered 
as  prefect  of  police,  might  be  so  considered. 

I  ran  up  against  this  gentleman  before  I  quitted 
the  palace  grounds.  He  had  already  run  up 
against  me  at  the  station  on  my  arrival,  —  as  I 
afterward  discovered,  — and  had  entered  me  as 
a  suspicious  character  at  sight. 

In  five  minutes  he  had  bored  me  so  full  of 
questions  that  I  became  as  transparent  as  my 
passport,  which  he  held  up  to  the  light  in  order 
to  read  its  water-mark.  Next  he  went  through 
my  sketch-book  page  by  page,  and  finally 
through  all  my  letters  until  he  came  to  one  bear- 
ing at  its  top  the  image  of  the  American  eagle 
and  at  its  bottom  the  superscription  of  one  of  its 
secretaries,  answering  for  my  sobriety,  honesty, 
276 


A  BULGARIAN  OPERA  BOUFFE 

and  industry  ;  whereupon  he  waved  me  to  the 
door  with  full  permission  to  roam  and  sketch  at 
my  will.  Then  he  put  a  special  detective  on  my 
track,  who  never  took  his  eyes  from  me  during 
any  one  of  my  waking  hours. 

I  did  not  ask  this  potentate  whether  the  prince 
was  coming  back.  I  did  not  consider  it  an  op- 
portune moment. 

Neither  did  I  discuss  with  him  the  present  con- 
dition of  Bulgaria,  there  being  nothing  in  the  cut 
of  his  coat  —  nor  of  his  eye,  for  that  matter  — 
to  indicate  his  present  political  views.  He  might 
have  been  an  adherent  of  the  prince,  or  a  be- 
liever in  Panitza,  or  a  minion  of  Stamboloff,  or 
he  might  have  been  so  evenly  balanced  on  the 
edge  of  events  as  to  be  all  three  or  none. 

Nor  did  I  explain  to  him  how  grieved  I  was 
that  his  present  lords  and  masters  should  have 
seen  fit  to  absent  themselves  just  at  the  precise 
moment  when  their  combined  presence  would 
have  been  so  agreeable  to  me.  I  had  really 
crossed  desert  wastes  to  study  their  complicated 
comedy,  and  now  all  the  principal  actors  were 
out  of  town. 

A  rehearsal  of  the  preceding  acts  of  this  play 
may  possibly  lead  to  a  better  understanding  of 
the  drama  as  it  was  then  being  developed  in 
277 


A  BULGARIAN  OPERA  BOUFFE 

Bulgaria.  It  is  not  heroic ;  it  cannot  even  be 
called  romantic,  this  spectacle  in  which  three 
millions  of  souls  are  seen  hunting  about  Europe 
for  a  sovereign,  — a  sort  of  still  hunt  resulting 
in  the  capture  of  two  kings  in  four  years,  with 
hopes  of  bagging  a  protector  or  a  president  be- 
fore the  fifth  is  out. 

But  to  the  play  itself. 

At  present  in  Bulgaria  there  are,  first,  the 
Russophiles,  who,  as  Petko  Karaveloff  says, 
"  pray  for  the  time  when  Bulgaria  shall  march 
into  Salonica,  while  Russia  marches  into  Con- 
stantinople," and  who  believe  the  Czar  to  be 
their  natural  friend  and  ally,  with  the  only  hope 
of  settled  peace  in  his  protectorate.  Secondly, 
the  loyal  oppositionists,  headed  by  M.  Radosla- 
voff,  who  would  support  the  prince  with  certain 
concessions,  but  who  detest  his  advisers.  And 
thirdly,  the  sympathizers  of  Major  Panitza,  the 
murdered  patriot,  who  was  "  shot "  —  so  ran  a 
proclamation  a  week  old,  patches  of  which  were 
still  pointed  out  to  me  decorating  the  walls  of 
the  king's  palace  —  "by  the  order  of  the  blood- 
thirsty Ferdinand,  the  scoundrel  Stamboloff,  and 
the  '  Vaurien  '  Moutkourov." 

This  young  officer,  Panitza,  —  a  devoted  ad- 
herent of  Prince  Alexander,  —  had  served  with 
distinction  in  the  Servian  war,  having  led  one 
278 


A  BULGARIAN  OPERA  BOUFFE 

of  the  famous  charges  at  Slivnitza.  Believing 
that  the  only  salvation  for  his  country  lay  in 
Russian  interference,  he  had  joined  hands  with 
a  Russian  spy,  Kolobkoff,  in  fomenting  discord 
in  the  army.  Unluckily,  his  own  letters,  carry- 
ing unmistakable  evidence  of  the  plot,  fell  into 
the  hands  of  Stamboloff  himself,  resulting  in 
his  immediate  arrest,  trial,  and  condemnation 
by  court-martial. 

It  is  greatly  to  the  credit  of  Prince  Ferdinand 
that  he  was  strongly  inclined  to  spare  Panitza. 
He  in  fact  held  out  for  more  than  a  week  against 
the  combined  assaults  of  Stamboloff  and  his 
brother-in-law,  Moutkourov, — then  minister  of 
war,  —  and  it  was  not  until  his  prime  minister 
threatened  the  resignation  of  the  entire  cabinet 
that  he  finally  yielded.  There  is  even  a  story 
current  that  when  this  threat  failed,  Stamboloff 
followed  the  king  to  Lorn  Palanka  with  the 
death-warrant  in  his  hand,  and  that  when  he 
still  hesitated  that  implacable  dictator  remarked 
sententiously,  — 

"  Sire,  Major  Panitza  dies  on  the  morrow.  If 
you  continue  to  object,  there  is  one  thing  we 
can  always  do  for  your  majesty,  —  we  can  al- 
ways buy  you  a  first-class  ticket  to  Vienna." 

Stamboloff 's  plan  for  governing  had  been  sim- 
279 


A  BULGARIAN  OPERA  BOUFFE 

pie  and  to  the  point.  It  called  for  five  millions 
of  roubles  and  a  king.  Who  this  king  might  be, 
or  where  he  should  hail  from,  was  a  matter  of 
detail.  Anybody  but  a  Russian  or  a  Turk  would 
do.  And  so  offers  were  made  in  a  confidential 
way  to  various  gentlemen  who  thought  they 
had  an  especial,  divine  gift  for  reigning,  and 
who  lacked  the  opportunity  only  because  of  the 
depleted  condition  of  their  bank  accounts.  At 
last  a  fond  and  ambitious  mother  and  an  oblig- 
ing son  with  an  almost  unlimited  reserve  fund 
—  unlimited  for  the  ordinary  needs  of  life  — 
took  the  bait. 

It  was  not,  however,  a  harmonious  family 
arrangement ;  for  it  was  well  known  that  the 
young  prince's  uncle,  the  Duke  of  Saxe-Co- 
burg,  did  what  he  could  to  prevent  the  final 
agreement,  —  he  being  an  older  and  wiser  diplo- 
mat, and  having  had  a  long  and  varied  experi- 
ence in  the  ups  and  downs  of  several  see-saw 
governments.  Among  other  things,  the  duke 
boldly  stated  that  it  was  only  a  question  of 
money  with  the  Bulgarian  regents,  and  that 
Ferdinand  would  leave  the  throne  when  his 
guldens  were  gone,  as  had  Alexander,  to  whom 
the  Bulgarian  government  then  owed  three  mil- 
lions of  francs. 

The  duke  was  right.  When  the  hour  arrived, 
280 


A  BULGARIAN  OPERA  BOUFFE 

there  were,  of  course,  cogent  reasons  for  heavy 
drafts  on  the  king's  exchequer,  —  the  army 
was  to  be  rearmed  and  clothed,  an  important 
railroad  built,  and  a  thousand  and  one  improve- 
ments made.  The  money  would  be  returned. 

This  schedule  has  been  literally  carried  out, 
—  except  the  return  item,  —  if  not  to  the  benefit 
of  Bulgaria  herself,  certainly  to  the  depletion  of 
the  prince's  bank  account. 

Among  the  most  seductive  of  these  schemes 
was  the  beautifying  of  the  capital.  Streets  were 
to  be  opened,  and  trees  planted,  and  flowers 
made  to  bloom.  I  recall  now  that  vast  band  of 
stagnant  dust  leading  from  the  station  to  the 
town,  separated  from  its  surrounding  monotony 
bysundry  depressions  and  grades  indicated  along 
the  line  by  the  excavated  debris  which  fringed 
its  edges  ;  with  a  double  row  of  infant  trees 
marking  its  curb-lines,  each  one  of  which  was 
shrivelled  to  a  crisp  by  the  blistering  heat. 
Added  to  this  mockery,  at  regular  intervals 
stood  flower-beds  in  ovals,  and  diamonds,  and 
circles,  filled  with  plants  burned  to  a  cinder, 
— their  very  blossoms,  which  no  man  had  dared 
pluck,  dead  for  months,  and  still  standing  brown 
and  dust- begrimed. 

Such  is  the  great  boulevard  leading  from  the 
railway  to  the  palace  ! 

281 


A  BULGARIAN  OPERA  BOUFFE 

The  boulevard,  however,  is  not  the  only  part 
of  Sofia  illustrating  the  prevailing  taste  to  over- 
turn and  reconstruct.  One  sees  it  in  the  new 
part  of  the  town,  where  government  buildings, 
bare,  white,  and  forbidding,  are  going  up  in  all 
directions.  One  sees  it  also  in  the  old  mosque 
and  garden  landmarks  left  standing  high  above 
new  streets  now  being  cut  to  their  very  edges  ; 
their  preservation  a  tacit  acknowledgment  of 
their  right  to  exist,  their  isolation  a  forerunner 
of  their  death,  —  quite  as  the  old  traditions  are 
being  undermined  by  the  present  government. 

Many  of  these  streets  serve  a  double  pur- 
pose. They  make  a  short  route  to  the  palace, 
and  they  provide  right  of  way  for  hasty  ar- 
tillery practice.  One  cannot  always  tell,  in  so 
changeable  a  climate  as  that  of  Bulgaria,  when 
the  prevailing  political  wind  may  shift. 

The  palace  itself,  a  great  hospital-looking 
building  surrounded  by  a  garden,  suggests  only 
stately  discomfort  and  emptiness.  In  walking 
through  its  great  halls  and  scantily  furnished 
salons,  I  could  not  help  pondering  upon  the  pe- 
culiarities of  human  nature,  and  wondering 
what  could  have  induced  this  fine  young  officer 
—  and  he  is  a  fine  fellow  in  every  sense  of  the 
word  —  to  give  up  his  brilliant  life  in  Vienna, 
the  most  delightful  capital  in  Europe,  and  to  a 
282 


A  BULGARIAN  OPERA  BOUFFE 

young  man  of  fortune  the  most  fascinating,  in 
order  to  bury  himself  in  this  ugly  pile  of  ma- 
sonry. But  then  the  market  is  never  overstocked 
with  empty  thrones,  while  would-be  kings  are 
a  drug. 

The  old  part  of  the  town,  however,  is  still 
quaint  and  Oriental,  and  has  thus  far  escaped 
the  restless  shovel  and  saw.  It  lies  in  the  dip 
of  a  saucer-shaped  valley,  surrounded  by  bare 
brown  hills.  Netted  with  crooked,  dirty  streets 
and  choked  with  low,  shambling  houses,  with 
here  and  there  a  ruined  mosque,  it  remains  a 
picturesque  reminder  of  the  days  of  Turkish  rule, 
unchanged  since  the  signing  of  the  Berlin  Treaty, 
when  in  a  single  year  five  thousand  of  Moham- 
med's chosen  shook  the  dust  of  Sofia  from  their 
feet  and  sought  refuge  under  the  Sultan. 

The  most  interesting  of  these  quaint  remnants 
of  Oriental  architecture  found  in  the  old  part  of 
the  city  is  the  Mosque  Bania-bashie,  dating  back 
to  the  year  1279.  This  mosque  is  still  the  re- 
sort of  the  devout  Mohammedan,  who  prays 
therein  five  times  a  day  with  his  face  towards 
Mecca,  and  who,  despite  the  restrictions  that 
vex  his  race,  still  prostrates  himself  on  the  floor 
of  the  mosque  below,  in  obedience  to  the  call 
of  the  muezzin  from  the  slender  minaret  above. 

Here  I  had  my  first  glimpse  of  Mohammedan 
283 


A  BULGARIAN  OPERA  BOUFFE 

worship,  and  to  one  unaccustomed  to  the  forms 
of  the  Mohammedan  religion,  and  especially  to 
one  who  sees  them  for  the  first  time,  I  know  of 
no  religious  spectacle  more  impressive.  Before 
you  stands  a  barefooted  Turk  erect  on  his  prayer- 
rug,  with  his  face  toward  Mecca  and  his  eyes 
looking  straight  into  the  eyes  of  his  God.  You 
see  at  a  glance  that  it  is  not  a  duty  with  him, 
nor  a  formality,  nor  the  maintenance  of  a  time- 
honored  custom.  It  is  his  very  life.  Watch  him 
as  he  enters  this  wretched  interior  of  Bania- 
bashie,  with  its  scaling  and  crumbling  walls,  and 
its  broken  windows,  through  which  the  doves 
fly  in  and  out.  Outside,  at  the  trickling  foun- 
tain, he  has  washed  his  feet  and  face  and  hands, 
bathing  his  throat  and  smoothing  his  beard  with 
his  wet  fingers.  He  is  a  rough,  broad-shouldered, 
poorly  clad  man  in  fez  and  skirt,  his  waist  girt 
with  a  wide  sash,  ragged  and  torn.  He  is  per- 
haps a  "hamal,"  a  man  who  carries  great 
weights  on  his  back,  —  a  human  beast  of  bur- 
den. His  load,  whatever  it  may  be,  is  outside 
in  the  court.  His  hourly  task  is  his  daily  bread  ; 
but  he  has  heard  the  shrill  cry  from  the  mina- 
ret up  against  the  sky,  and  stops  instantly  to 
obey. 

He  enters  the  sacred  building  with  his  shoes 
in  his  hands.   These  he  leaves  at  the  edge  of 
284 


A  BULGARIAN  OPERA  BOUFFE 

the  mat.  Now  he  is  on  holy  ground.  Advan- 
cing slowly,  he  halts  halfway  across  the  floor, 
and  stands  erect.  Before  him  is  a  blank  wall ; 
beyond  it  the  tomb  of  the  Prophet.  For  a  mo- 
ment he  is  perfectly  still,  his  eyes  closed,  his 
lips  motionless.  It  is  as  if  he  stood  in  the  ante- 
chamber of  Heaven,  awaiting  recognition.  Then 
his  face  lights  up.  He  has  been  seen  !  The 
next  instant  he  is  on  his  knees,  and,  stretching 
out  his  hands,  prostrates  himself,  his  forehead 
pressed  to  the  floor.  This  solitary  service  con- 
tinues for  an  hour.  The  man  stands  erect  one 
moment,  with  a  movement  as  if  he  said,  "  Com- 
mand me;  I  am  here;  "  the  next  he  is  pros- 
trate in  obedience.  Then  he  backs  slowly  out, 
and,  noiseless,  regains  his  shoes,  bends  his  back 
to  his  burden,  and  keeps  on  his  way,  his  face 
having  lost  all  its  tired,  hunted  look. 

There  is  no  mistaking  the  impression  made 
upon  you.  It  is  not  a  religious  ceremony,  nor  a 
form  of  devotion,  nor  a  prayer.  This  man  has 
been  in  the  very  presence  of  his  God. 

Next  to  this  crumbling  mosque  stands  the 
Turkish  bath,  with  its  round  dome  pierced  with 
bull's-eyes,  through  which  the  light  falls  in 
slanting  parallel  bars  upon  clouds  of  boiling 
steam.  The  water  gushes  from  the  ground  at  a 
temperature  of  1 10°  Fahrenheit,  the  pool  being 
285 


A  BULGARIAN  OPERA  BOUFFE 

shoulder-deep  and  filling  the  whole  interior  ex- 
cepting the  narrow  edge,  around  which  cling  the 
half-boiled  natives  in  every  variety  of  undress 
uniform  from  the  pattern  used  in  the  Garden 
of  Eden  down  to  the  modern  dressing-gown. 

Outside  of  this  circular  room  are  cooling  apart- 
ments smelling  of  wet  towels  and  furnished  with 
divans  upon  which  men  lounge,  half-clad,  smok- 
ing cigarettes.  Now  and  then  from  an  inside 
cubbyhole  come  the  whiff  of  a  narghile  and 
that  unmistakable  aroma,  the  steam  of  smoking 
coffee. 

What  a  luxury  after  a  four  months'  drought 
and  its  consequent  accumulation  of  Bulgarian 
dust !  How  genuine  and  unique  this  volcanic- 
heated  symposium  compared  to  all  its  base  imita- 
tions palmed  off  on  a  suffering  public  in  the  sev- 
eral capitals  of  Europe  and  America  !  For  more 
than  six  hundred  years,  and  in  fact  before  the 
mosque  was  built,  has  this  pool  of  Siloam  com- 
forted the  sick  and  soothed  the  well  and  cleansed 
the  soiled.  And  hot,  too,  —  boiling  hot  out  of 
the  ground,  running  free  night  and  day,  and  al- 
ways ready,  with  its  accompaniments  of  Turkish 
coffee,  pipes,  and  divans.  Go  to,  with  your 
marble  slabs,  and  radiators,  and  high-pressure 
boilers  under  the  sidewalk  ! 

Beyond  this  section  of  narrow  streets  there 
286 


A  BULGARIAN  OPERA  BOUFFE 

runs  a  broad  highway  lined  with  booths  attended 
by  all  sorts  of  people  —  Gypsies,  Turks,  Jews, 
Greeks,  and  Hungarians,  selling  every  kind  of 
merchandise  entirely  worthless  to  anybody  but 
a  native.  Here  are  rings  of  bread,  squares  of 
leather  for  sandals,  messes  in  bowls  with  inde- 
scribable things  floating  about  in  boiling  grease, 
heaps  and  lumps  of  other  things  served  smoking 
hot  in  wooden  plates,  and  festoons  of  candied 
fruit  strung  on  straws  and  sugared  with  dust. 
Here  are  piles  of  melons  and  baskets  on  baskets 
of  grapes,  —  these  last  delicious,  it  being  the  sea- 
son, —  and  great  strings  of  onions,  pyramids  of 
tomatoes,  and  the  like.  Everywhere  is  a  mob 
in  rags,  apparently  intent  upon  cutting  one  an- 
other's throats  to  save  half  a  piastre. 

Farther  on  is  the  Jews'  quarter,  the  street 
Nischkolitza,  with  its  low  houses  eked  out  by 
awnings  under  which  sit  groups  of  people  loung- 
ing and  talking,  and  behind  these,  in  little  square 
boxes  of  rooms  let  into  the  wall,  squat  the 
money-changers, — their  bank  accounts  exposed 
in  a  small  box  with  a  glass  top,  through  which 
can  be  seen  specimens  of  half  the  coinage  and 
printage  of  eastern  Europe. 

If  the  king's  continued  absence  caused  any 
uneasiness  among  the  people  crowding  these 
streets  and  bazaars,  there  was  nothing  on  the 
287 


A  BULGARIAN  OPERA  BOUFFE 

surface  to  indicate  it.  Many  of  them  looked  as 
if  they  had  very  little  to  lose,  and  those  who 
had  a  little  more  either  carried  it  on  their  per- 
sons in  long  chains  of  coins  welded  together,  — 
a  favorite  form  of  safe-deposit  with  the  Bulga- 
rians, —  or,  like  the  money-changers,  hived  it 
in  a  portable  box. 

Nor  could  I  discover  that  any  one  realized 
that  he  was  living  over  a  powder  magazine  with 
a  match  factory  next  door.  On  the  contrary, 
everybody  was  good-natured  and  happy,  chaf- 
fing one  another  across  the  booths  of  the  ba- 
zaars, and  bursting  into  roars  of  laughter  when 
my  brush  brought  out  the  features  of  some  well- 
known  street  vender. 

The  only  native  who  rearly  seemed  to  pos- 
sess any  positive  ideas  on  the  uncertain  con- 
dition of  public  affairs  was  a  Polish  Jew,  the 
keeper  of  the  bath,  whom  I  found  berating  two 
soldiers  for  refusing  to  pay  extra  for  their  nar- 
ghiles, and  who  expressed  to  me  his  contempt 
for  the  ruling  powers  by  sweeping  in  the  air  a 
circle  which  embraced  the  palace  and  the  offend- 
ers, spitting  on  the  floor,  and  grinding  his  heel 
in  the  moistened  spot. 

Near  the  bath,  and  in  fact  almost  connected 
with  it  by  a  rambling  row  of  houses,  is  one  of 
288 


A  BULGARIAN  OPERA  BOUFFE 

the  few  Oriental  cafes  left  in  Sofia,  — a  one-story 
building  with  curious  sloping  roof,  its  one  door 
opening  upon  the  street  corner.  It  is  called  the 
"  Maritza."  On  both  sides  of  this  entrance  are 
long,  low  windows  shaped  like  those  of  an  old 
English  inn,  and  beneath  these  —  outside  on  the 
sidewalk  —  is  a  row  of  benches,  upon  which 
lounge  idlers  sipping  coffee  and  smoking  cigar- 
ettes. Within  are  a  motley  crew  of  all  nationali- 
ties, liberally  sprinkled  with  Bulgarian  soldiers 
out  on  a  day's  leave. 

Coffee  is  almost  the  only  beverage  in  these 
Turkish  cafes.  It  is  always  handed  you  scald- 
ing hot  in  little  saucerless  cups  holding  hardly 
a  mouthful  each.  A  glass  of  cold  water  invari- 
ably accompanies  each  cup.  This  coffee  is  gen- 
erally the  finest  old  Mocha,  with  an  aroma  and 
flavor  unapproachable  in  any  brand  that  I  know, 
except  perhaps  the  Uruapam  coffee  of  Mexico. 
In  preparing  it  the  roasted  bean  is  ground  as  fine 
as  flour  in  a  hand-mill,  —  a  teaspoonful  of  the 
powder,  with  half  the  amount  of  fine  sugar,  be- 
ing put  into  a  brass  pot  with  a  long  handle.  To 
this  is  added  a  tablespoonful  of  boiling  water. 
The  pot  is  then  thrust  into  the  coals  of  a  char- 
coal fire  until  the  coffee  reaches  boiling  point, 
when  it  is  caught  up  by  the  waiter,  who  runs 
to  your  table  and  pours  the  whole  into  your  cup. 
289 


A  BULGARIAN  OPERA  BOUFFE 

Although  it  is  dark  and  thick,  it  is  never  strong, 
and  there  is  not  a  wakeful  hour  in  a  dozen  cups. 

To  me  there  is  nothing  so  interesting  as  one 
of  these  Oriental  cafes,  and  so  I  turned  in  from 
the  street,  drew  a  square  straw-covered  stool  up 
to  a  low  table,  and  held  up  one  finger.  A  fez- 
covered  attendant  shuffled  over  and  filled  my 
cup.  As  I  raised  it  to  my  lips,  my  eyes  caught 
the  riveted  glance  of  a  black-bearded  man  with  a 
beak-like  nose  and  two  ferret  eyes  watching  me 
intently.  He  was  dressed  in  a  half-cloak  orna- 
mented with  a  dark  braid  in  twists  and  circles, 
and  wore  a  slouch  hat. 

Being  stared  at  in  a  cafe  for  the  first  five 
minutes  is  so  usual  an  experience  for  me,  in  my 
tramps  abroad,  that  I  accept  it  as  part  of  the 
conditions  of  travel.  But  there  are,  of  course, 
different  kinds  of  stares,  all  induced  and  kept  up 
for  the  most  part  by  idle  curiosity,  which  gen- 
erally ceases  after  my  dress  has  been  examined, 
and  especially  my  shoes,  and  when  my  voice 
has  been  found  to  be  like  that  of  other  men. 

This  man's  stare,  however,  was  devoid  of 
curiosity.  His  was  the  face  of  a  ferret ;  a  sly, 
creeping,  half-shrinking  face,  with  an  eye  that 
pierced  you  one  moment  and  slunk  away  the 
next.  The  thought  flashed  through  my  mind  — 
a  Spanish  Jew  who  hides  his  gold  in  a  hole, 
290 


A  BULGARIAN  OPERA  BOUFFE 

and  who  is  here  changing  money  while  the 
"effervescence"  lasts.  When  I  looked  again,  a 
moment  later,  he  had  disappeared. 

The  face  haunted  me  so  much  that  I  traced 
its  outlines  in  my  sketch-book,  trying  to  remem- 
ber where  I  had  seen  it.  I  finally  persuaded 
myself  that  it  only  suggested  some  similar  face 
seen  long  ago.  Finishing  my  coffee,  I  lighted 
a  cigarette,  picked  up  a  stool,  and,  planting  it 
across  the  street,  began  a  sketch  of  the  exterior 
of  the  cafe. 

The  usual  crowd  gathered,  many  following 
me  from  the  room  itself,  and  soon  the  throng 
was  so  great  that  I  could  not  see  the  lower  lines 
of  the  building.  No  language  that  I  speak  is 
adapted  to  Bulgaria,  and  so,  rising  to  my  feet, 
I  called  out  in  honest  Anglo-Saxon,  — 

"Get  down  in  front!"  This  accompanied 
by  a  gesture  like  a  policeman's  "Move  on." 

Nobody  got  down  in  front,  or  behind,  for  that 
matter.  On  the  contrary,  everybody  who  was 
down  got  up,  and  the  sketch  was  fast  becoming 
hopeless,  when  four  gendarmes  arose  out  of  the 
ground  as  noiselessly  and  mysteriously  as  if 
they  had  issued  from  between  the  cracks  of  the 
paving-stones,  formed  a  hollow  square,  with 
the  cafe  at  one  end  and  me  at  the  other,  —  the 
intervening  space  being  as  clear  of  bystanders  as 
291 


A  BULGARIAN  OPERA  BOUFFE 

the  back  of  my  hand,  — and  stood  like  statues 
until  the  sketch  was  finished.  When  I  closed 
my  book  half  an  hour  later,  a  man  on  the  outer 
edge,  wrapped  in  a  cloak,  raised  his  hand.  The 
crowd  fell  back,  a  gap  was  made,  and  the  four 
gendarmes  passed  out  and  were  swallowed  up. 

I  turned  and  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  black  hat 
half  concealing  a  dark,  bearded  face.  It  was  my 
friend  of  the  cafe.  Not  a  Spanish  Jew  at  all,  I 
said  to  myself,  but  some  prominent  citizen  re- 
spected by  the  police  and  anxious  to  be  cour- 
teous to  a  stranger.  And  again  I  dismissed  the 
face  and  the  incident  from  my  mind. 

Just  here  another  face  appeared  and  another 
incident  occurred,  neither  of  which  was  so  easily 
forgotten.  The  face  enlivened  the  well-knit, 
graceful  figure  of  a  young  man  of  thirty  dressed 
in  a  gray  travelling-suit  and  wearing  a  derby 
hat.  Every  line  in  his  good-natured  counte- 
nance expressed  that  rarest  and  most  delightful 
of  combinations,  —  humor  and  grit.  From  this 
face  proceeded  a  voice  which  sent  down  my 
spine  that  peculiar  tingle  which  one  feels  when, 
halfway  across  the  globe,  surrounded  by  jar- 
gon and  heathen,  he  hears  suddenly  his  own 
tongue,  in  his  own  accent,  spoken  by  a  fellow- 
townsman. 

"  I  heard  your  '  down  in  front '  and  knew 
29? 


A  BULGARIAN  OPERA  BOUFFE 

right  away  where  you  were  from  ;  but  these 
Bashi-bazouks  blocked  the  way.  My  name  is 
Burton,  correspondent  of  the  «  Herald.'  Been 
here  two  months  watching  this  mouse-trap. 
Come  into  the  cafe,  where  we  can  talk.  You 
don't  know  what  a  godsend  an  American  is  in 
a  hole  like  this." 

An  interchange  of  cards  settled  all  formali- 
ties, and  when,  half  an  hour  later,  numbers  of 
mutual  friends  were  discovered  and  inquired 
after,  we  grew  as  confiding  and  comfortable  as 
if  we  had  been  the  best  of  friends  through  life. 

Burton  was  one  of  those  men  of  whom  every- 
body hears,  whom  few  people  see,  and  not  many 
people  know ;  one  of  those  men  whose  homes 
are  fixed  by  telegrams,  whose  wits,  like  their 
pencils,  are  sharpened  in  emergencies,  whose 
energies  are  untiring  and  exhaustless,  who  ran- 
sack, permeate,  get  at  the  bottom  of  things,  and 
endure,  —  individual  men,  sagacious,  many- 
sided,  and  productive,  whose  whole  identity  is 
mercilessly  swallowed  up  and  lost  in  that  un- 
noticed headline,  "  Our  Correspondent." 

I  had  heard  of  Burton  in  Paris  a  few  weeks 
before,  where  his  endless  resources  in  the  field 
and  his  Arctic  coolness  in  tight  places  were 
by-words  among  his  fellow-craftsmen.  At  the 
time  his  friends  supposed  him  to  be  somewhere 
293 


A  BULGARIAN  OPERA  BOUFFE 

between  Vienna  and  Constantinople,  although 
none  of  them  located  him  in  Bulgaria,  great 
morning  journals  being  somewhat  reticent  as  to 
the  identity  and  whereabouts  of  their  staff. 

"Yes,  "he  continued,  "life  here  would  re- 
concile a  man  to  the  bottomless  pit.  I  was  in 
London  doing  some  Irish  business, — rose  in 
your  buttonhole  at  breakfast,  Hyde  Park  in  the 
afternoon,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  —  when  a 
telegram  sent  me  flying  to  Paris.  Two  hours 
after,  I  was  aboard  the  Orient  express,  with 
my  shirts  half  dried  in  my  bag,  and  an  order  in 
my  inside  pocket  to  overhaul  Stamboloff  and 
find  out  whether  the  prince  had  left  for  good, 
or  was  waiting  until  the  blow  was  over  before 
he  came  back.  You  see,  the  Panitza  affair  came 
near  upsetting  things  here,  and  at  the  time  it 
looked  as  if  the  European  war  circus  was  about 
to  begin." 

"  Did  you  find  Stamboloff  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Yes.  Reached  the  frontier,  learned  he  had 
left  Sofia,  and,  after  travelling  all  night  in  a 
cart,  got  him  at  Sistova,  and  caught  our  Sun- 
day's edition  three  hours  later.  Here  I  have 
been  ever  since,  waiting  for  something  to  turn 
up,  and  spending  half  my  nights  trying  to  get 
what  little  does  turn  up  across  the  frontier  and 
so  on  to  Paris.  And  the  worst  of  it  is  that  for 

294 


A  BULGARIAN  OPERA  BOUFFE 

four  weeks  I  have  n't  had  a  line  from  head- 
quarters." 

"  What !  Leave  you  here  in  the  lurch  ?  " 

"  No  ;  certainly  not.  They  write  regularly  ; 
but  these  devils  stop  everything  at  the  post- 
office,  open  and  re-seal  all  my  private  letters, 
and  only  give  me  what  they  think  good  forme. 
For  two  weeks  past  1  have  been  sending  my 
stuff  across  the  frontier  and  mailing  it  in  Servia. 
How  the  devil  did  you  get  permission  to  sketch 
around  here  ?" 

I  produced  the  talismanic  scroll  with  the 
water-mark  and  the  image  and  the  superscrip- 
tion, and  related  my  experience  with  the  pre- 
fect. 

"  Gave  you  the  freedom  of  the  city,  did  he  ? 
I  wager  you  he  will  go  through  your  traps  like 
a  custom-house  officer  when  you  leave,  and 
seize  everything  you  have.  They  have  been 
doing  their  level  best  to  drive  me  out  of  here 
ever  since  we  published  that  first  interview  with 
Stamboloff ,  and  they  would  if  they  dared.  Only, 
being  a  correspondent,  you  see,  and  this  being 
a  liberal,  free  monarchy,  it  would  n't  sound  well 
the  next  day. 

"  Come,  finish  your  coffee,  and  I  '11  show  you 
something  you  can  never  see  outside  of  Bulga- 
ria." 

295 


A  BULGARIAN  OPERA  BOUFFE 

We  strolled  up  past  the  bazaars  along  the 
boulevard,  stopping  for  a  moment  to  note  the 
cathedral,  with  one  end  perched  up  in  the  air, 

—  Stamboloff ' s  commissioners  of  highways  hav- 
ing lowered  the  street  grade  at  that  point  some 
twenty  feet  below  the  level  of  the  porch  floor. 

Opposite  this  edifice  was  the  skylight  of  the 
local  photographer.  The  old,  familiar  smell  of 
evaporating  ether  greeted  us  as  we  entered  his 
one-story  shop,  —  it  would  be  a  poetic  license  to 
call  it  a  gallery,  —  and  the  usual  wooden  bal- 
cony, with  its  painted  vase  and  paper  flowers, 
grinned  at  us  from  its  customary  place  behind 
the  iron  head-rest. 

Here  were  portraits  of  the  prince  and  his  mo- 
ther, Princess  Clementine,  and  of  poor  Panitza, 

—  whom  I  really  could  not  help  liking,  traitor 
as  he  was  to  Stamboloff ,  —  and  the  rest  of  the 
notables,  not  forgetting  the  dethroned  prince, 
Alexander  of  Battenberg,  all  of  whom  had  occu- 
pied the  plush  armchair,  or  had  stood  behind 
the  Venetian  railing,  with  the  Lake  of  Como 
and  Mont  Blanc  in  the  distance. 

Burton  hunted  through  the  collection  of  por- 
traits scattered  about  the  table,  and  handed  me 
two  photographs,  —  one  of  a  well-built,  hand- 
some man  with  pointed  mustache,  dressed  in 
the  native  costume  and  shackled  with  heavy 
296 


A  BULGARIAN  OPERA  BOUFFE 

chains  fastened  to  his  ankles.  He  was  standing 
in  a  prison  yard,  guarded  by  a  soldier  holding  a 
carbine. 

"Good-looking  cutthroat,  isn't  he?  Might 
be  a  diplomat  or  a  night  editor  ?  Too  honest, 
you  think  ?  Well,  that 's  Taco  Voyvoda,  the 
famous  bandit  who  was  caught  a  few  years  ago 
in  the  act  of  murdering  a  detachment,  and  who 
was  filled  full  of  lead  the  next  day  at  the  gov- 
ernment's expense.  Now  look  at  this,"  and  he 
handed  me  the  other  photograph. 

I  held  it  to  the  light,  and  a  shiver  ran  through 
me.  On  a  box  covered  with  a  piece  of  canvas 
rested  the  head  of  a  man  severed  from  the  body. 
One  eye  was  closed.  The  other  was  lost  in  a 
ghastly  hole,  the  mark  left  by  a  rifle-ball.  The 
mustache  was  still  stiff  and  pointed,  one  end 
drooping  a  little,  and  the  mouth  set  firm  and 
determined.  The  whole  face  carried  an  expres- 
sion as  if  the  death  agony  had  been  suddenly 
frozen  into  it.  About  the  horror  were  grouped 
the  bandit's  carbine,  holsters,  and  cartridge-belt 
bristling  with  cartridges.  The  belt  hung  over 
the  matted  hair  framing  the  face. 

Burton  watched  me  curiously. 

"  Lovely  souvenir,  is  n't  it  ?  The  day  after 
the  shooting  they  cut  off  poor  Taco's  head,  and 
our  friend  here,"  pointing  to  the  photographer, 
297 


A  BULGARIAN  OPERA  BOUFFE 

"fixed  him  up  in  this  fashion  to  meet  the  pop- 
ular demand.  The  sale  was  enormous.  Bah  ! 
let 's  go  to  dinner." 

My  new-found  friend  had  a  better  place  than 
the  one  presided  over  by  my  slightly  bald  waiter 
with  the  Tower  of  Babel  education.  He  would 
take  me  to  his  home.  He  knew  of  a  garden 
where  a  few  tables  were  set,  girt  about  with 
shrubs  and  sheltered  by  overhanging  trees  that 
had  escaped  the  drought.  At  one  end  was  a 
modest  house  with  a  few  rooms  to  let.  His  grip- 
sack was  in  one  of  these.  That  was  why  he 
loved  to  call  it  his  home. 

Soon  a  white  cloth  covered  a  table  for  two, 
and  a  very  comfortable  dinner  was  served  in 
the  twilight.  With  the  coffee  the  talk  drifted 
into  the  present  political  outlook,  and  I  put  the 
universal  conundrum,  — 

"  Will  the  prince  return  ?" 

"You  can't  tell,"  said  Burton.  "Formyself, 
I  believe  he  will.  He  must  do  so  if  he  wants  to 
see  his  money  again,  and  he  can  do  so  in  safety 
if  Stamboloff  succeeds  in  carrying  the  elections 
next  month,  which  I  believe  he  will.  If  he  fails, 
the  nearer  they  all  hug  the  frontier  the  better ; 
for  there  are  hundreds  of  men  right  here  around 
us  who  would  serve  every  one  of  them  as  the 
soldiers  did  Taco  Voyvoda.  They  know  it,  too, 
298 


A  BULGARIAN  OPERA  BOUFFE 

for  they  are  all  off  electioneering  except  the 
prince,  who,  I  understand,  has  left  Ryllo  to-day 
for  Varna.  He  is  hanging  on  the  telegraph  now. 
Not  the  poles,  but  the  dispatches. 

"  The  worst  feature  of  the  situation  is  that 
most  of  the  factions  are  backed  up  by  Russian 
and  other  agents,  each  in  their  several  interests 
ready  to  lend  a  hand.  To-day  it  is  a  game  of 
chess  between  Russia  and  Turkey ;  to-morrow 
it  may  involve  all  Europe.  Through  it  all  my 
sympathies  are  with  the  prince.  He  has  been 
here  now  nearly  three  years  trying  to  make 
something  of  these  barbarians,  and  so  far  not  a 
single  European  power  has  recognized  him.  He 
will  get  nothing  for  his  pains,  poor  fellow.  When 
his  money  is  all  gone  they  will  bounce  him  as 
they  did  Batten  berg. 

"  Certain  members  of  the  cabinet  are  not  safe 
even  now,"  continued  Burton.  "While  I  was 
at  Sistova,  the  other  day,  I  had  an  opportunity 
of  seeing  some  of  the  risks  that  Stamboloff  him- 
self runs,  and  also  how  carefully  he  is  guarded. 
He  was  in  a  cafe  taking  his  breakfast.  As  soon 
as  he  entered,  a  tall  sergeant  of  gendarmes  with 
his  sabre  half  drawn  and  his  red  sash  stuck  full 
of  pistols  and  yataghans  moved  to  his  right  side, 
while  another,  equally  ferocious  and  as  heavily 
armed,  guarded  his  left.  Then  the  doors  were 
299 


A  BULGARIAN  OPERA  BOUFFE 

blocked  by  half  a  dozen  other  gendarmes,  who 
watched  everybody's  movements.  There  is 
really  not  so  much  solid  fun  being  prime  minis- 
ter in  Bulgaria  as  one  would  think." 

While  Burton  was  speaking  three  officers  en- 
tered the  garden  where  we  were  dining  and  took 
possession  of  an  adjoining  table.  My  friend 
nodded  to  one  of  them  and  kept  on  talking, 
lowering  his  voice  a  trifle  and  moving  his  chair 
so  that  his  face  could  not  be  seen. 

The  Bulgarians  were  in  white  uniforms  and 
carried  their  side-arms. 

The  next  instant  a  young  man  entered  hur- 
riedly, looked  about  anxiously,  and  came 
straight  towards  our  table.  When  he  caught 
sight  of  me  he  drew  back.  Burton  motioned 
him  to  advance,  and  turned  his  right  ear  for  a 
long,  whispered  communication,  interrupting  him 
occasionally  by  such  telephone  exclamations  as 
"  Who  told  you  so  ?  When  ?  How  did  he  find 
out  ?  To-morrow  ?  What  infernal  nonsense  ! 
I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it,"  etc. 

The  young  man  bent  still  lower  —  looked 
furtively  at  the  officers  —  and  in  an  inaudible 
whisper  poured  another  message  into  Burton's 
ear. 

My  host  gave  a  little  start  and  turned  a  trifle 
pale. 

300 


A  BULGARIAN  OPERA  BOUFFE 

"The  devil  you  say!  Better  come  to  my 
room,  then,  to-night  at  twelve." 

"  Anything'up  ?  "  I  asked  after  the  man  had 
gone,  noticing  the  change  in  Burton's  manner. 

"  Well,  yes.  My  assistant  tells  me  that  my 
last  letter  has  been  overhauled  this  side  of  the 
frontier,  and  that  orders  for  my  arrest  will  be 
signed  to-morrow.  I  don't  believe  it.  But  you 
can't  tell,  —  these  people  are  fools  enough  to 
do  anything.  If  I  knew  which  of  my  letters 
had  reached  our  orifice  I  wouldn't  care;  but 
I  have  n't  seen  our  paper  since  my  first  dis- 
patches appeared,  more  than  a  month  ago." 

"  That  need  n't  worry  you.  I  have  every  one 
of  them  in  my  bag  at  the  hotel,  and  every  is- 
sue of  your  paper  since  you  arrived  here.  I  knew 
I  was  coming,  and  I  wanted  to  be  posted." 

Burton  looked  at  me  in  open  astonishment. 

"You!  " 

"  Certainly.  Come  to  my  room  ;  get  them 
in  five  minutes." 

"  Well,  that  paralyzes  me  !  Here  I  have  been 
stranded  for  news  and  blocked  for  weeks  by 
these  brigands  who  rob  my  mail,  and  here  you 
pick  me  up  in  the  streets  and  haul  everything  I 
want  out  of  your  carpet-bag  !  Don't  ever  put 
that  in  a  story,  for  nobody  would  ever  believe 
it.  Give  me  a  cigarette." 
301 


A  BULGARIAN  OPERA  BOUFFE 

I  opened  my  case,  and  as  I  handed  him  its 
contents  my  eyes  rested  on  a  man  watching  us 
intently.  He  was  sitting  at  the  officers'  table. 
With  the  flaring  of  Burton's  match  his  face 
came  into  full  relief. 

It  was  my  friend  of  the  morning. 

"  There  he  is  again,"  I  blurted  out. 

"  Who  ?  "  said  Burton,  without  moving. 

"The  man  in  the  Turkish  cafe,  — the  one 
who  ordered  the  soldiers  around.  Who  is  he  ?  " 

Burton  never  moved  a  muscle  of  his  face  ex- 
cept to  blow  rings  over  his  coffee-cup. 

"  A  mean-looking  hound  in  a  slouch  hat,  with 
rat-terrier  eyes,  bushy  beard,  and  a  bad-fitting 
cloak  ?  " 

"Yes,"  said  I,  comparing  the  description 
over  his  shoulder. 

"  Why  !  that 's  my  shadow,  —  a  delicate  at- 
tention bestowed  on  me  by  the  prefect.  He 
thinks  I  don't  know  him,  but  I  fool  him  every 
day.  I  got  two  columns  out  last  night  from 
under  his  very  nose,  —  right  at  this  table.  The 
waiter  carried  them  off  in  a  napkin,  and  my 
man  nabbed  them  outside." 

"A  spy?  " 

"  No  ;  a  shadow,  a  night-hawk.  For  nearly 
two  months  this  fellow  has  never  taken  his 
eyes  off  me,  and  yet  he  has  never  seen  me  look 
302 


A  BULGARIAN  OPERA  BOUFFE 

him  in  the  face.  Come,  these  people  are  get- 
ting too  sociable." 

In  an  instant  we  were  in  the  street,  and  in 
three  minutes  had  entered  my  hotel.  Leaving 
Burton  in  the  hall,  I  mounted  the  broad  stair- 
case, went  straight  to  my  room,  picked  up  my 
pocket  sketch-book,  and  thrust  the  "  clippings  " 
into  my  inside  pocket. 

When  I  regained  the  corridor  outside  my 
door  the  man  in  the  slouch  hat  was  just  ahead 
of  me  on  his  way  downstairs  ! 

Smothering  my  astonishment,  —  I  had  left 
him  sitting  in  the  garden  five  minutes  before,  — 
I  followed  slowly,  matching  my  steps  to  his, 
and  turning  over  in  my  mind  whether  it  would 
be  best  to  swallow  the  clippings  or  drop  them 
over  the  balusters. 

I  could  see  Burton  below,  standing  near  the 
door,  absorbed  in  an  Orient  express  time-table 
tacked  to  the  wall.  (I  was  to  leave  for  Con- 
stantinople the  next  day.)  He  must  have  heard 
our  footsteps,  but  he  never  turned  his  head. 

The  man  reached  the  hall  floor,  —  I  was  five 
steps  behind, — stood  within  ten  feet  of  Bur- 
ton, and  began  striking  matches  for  a  cigar  which 
was  still  burning. 

I  decided  instantly. 

"  Oh,  Burton,"  I  called  out,  "  I  found  the 
303 


A  BULGARIAN  OPERA  BOUFFE 

sketch-book.  See  what  I  did  here  yesterday ;  " 
and  I  ran  rapidly  over  the  leaves,  noting  as  I 
turned,  "The  Jews'  Quarter,"  "Minaret  of 
Bania-bashie,"  "  Ox-Team  down  by  the  Ba- 
zaar," etc. 

The  man  lingered,  and  I  could  feel  him  look- 
ing over  my  shoulder.  Then  the  glass  door 
clicked,  and  he  disappeared. 

Burton  raised  his  hand  warningly. 

"  Where  did  you  pick  him  up  ?  " 

"  Outside  my  door." 

"  Keyhole  business,  eh  ?  Did  you  get 
them  ?  " 

I  touched  my  inside  pocket. 

"  Good,"  and  he  slipped  the  package  of 
clippings  under  his  waistcoat. 

The  next  morning  I  found  this  note  tucked 
under  my  door  :  — 

The  game  is  up.  Meet  me  at  station  at 
twelve.  BURTON. 

Five  minutes  before  the  appointed  hour  my 
traps  were  heaped  up  in  one  corner  of  the  wait- 
ing-room. 

I  confess  to  a  certain  degree  of  anxiety  as  I 
waited  in  the  station,  both  on  my  own  account 
and  on  his.  I  was  unable  to  understand  how 
304 


A  BULGARIAN  OPERA  BOUFFE 

the  night-hawk  could  have  reached  my  cham- 
ber door  ahead  of  me  unless  he  had  sailed  over 
the  roof  and  dropped  down  the  chimney,  and 
I  was  equally  willing  to  admit  that  something 
besides  a  desire  to  see  me  safely  in  bed  had 
induced  him  to  keyhole  my  movements.  Per- 
haps his  sudden  disappearance  through  the 
glass  door  was,  after  all,  only  preparatory  to  his 
including  me  in  the  attentions  he  was  about  to 
pay  to  Burton. 

When  the  exact  hour  arrived,  and  the  Orient 
express  direct  for  Philippopolis  and  Constanti- 
nople rolled  into  the  depot,  and  still  Burton  did 
not  appear,  I  began  to  realize  the  absurdity  of 
waiting  for  a  convict  at  the  main  entrance.  Bur- 
ton of  course  would  be  chained  to  two  soldiers 
and  placed  in  a  baggage- van,  or  perhaps  be 
shackled  around  the  ankles  like  Voyvoda  and 
lifted  out  of  a  cart  by  his  waistband.  The  yard 
was  the  place  to  find  him. 

I  made  my  way  between  the  two  door-guards, 
who  eyed  me  in  a  manner  that  convinced  me 
that  I  was  under  surveillance  and  would  most 
likely  catch  both  balls  in  the  vicinity  of  my 
collar-button  if  I  attempted  to  move  out  of 
range. 

But  there  was  nothing  in  the  yard  except 
empty  cars  and  a  squad  of  raw  recruits  sitting 
305 


A  BULGARIAN  OPERA  BOUFFE 

on  their  bundles  awaiting  transportation,  and 
so  I  tried  the  boulevard  side  again. 

No  Burton. 

Just  as  I  was  about  to  give  him  up  for  lost, 
and  had  begun  turning  over  in  my  mind  what 
my  duty  might  be  as  a  man  and  an  American, 
a  fresh  cloud  of  dust  blew  through  the  open 
door,  and  a  cab  pulled  up.  From  this  emerged 
a  pair  of  leather  gaiters  followed  by  two  legs  in 
check  trousers,  a  hand  with  white  wristbands 
and  English  gloves,  and  last  the  cool,  unruffled 
face  of  Burton  himself. 

"  Yes,  I  am  late,  but  I  have  been  up  all  night 
dictating.  You  got  my  note,  I  see.  I  go  as  far 
with  you  as  Philippopolis,  where  1  get  out  to 
reach  the  Pomuk  Highlands.  You  remember  I 
told  you  about  that  old  brigand  chief,  Achmet 
Aga,  who  rules  a  province  of  forty  square  miles 
and  pays  tribute  to  no  one,  not  even  the  Sul- 
tan. You  know  he  murders  everybody  who 
crosses  his  line  without  his  permission.  Well,  1 
am  going  to  interview  him." 

This  was  said  in  one  breath  and  with  as  much 
ease  of  manner  and  indifference  to  surroundings 
as  if  the  man  with  a  slouch  hat  had  been  an 
idle  dream  instead  of  an  active  reality. 

"  But  what  about  your  arrest,  Burton  ?  I  ex- 
pected"— 


A  BULGARIAN  OPERA  BOUFFE 

"  Expected  what  —  dungeons  ?  Nonsense.  I 
simply  went  out  on  my  balcony  last  night  be- 
fore I  crawled  into  bed,  sneezed,  and  called  out 
in  French  to  my  man  inside  to  pack  my  bag  for 
this  train.  That  satisfied  my  shadow,  for  all  he 
wants  is  to  get  me  out  of  the  way.  Don't  worry; 
the  dog  will  be  here  to  see  us  off." 

Burton  was  right.  That  ugly  face  was  the 
last  that  peered  at  us  as  we  rolled  out  of  the 
station. 

Six  hours  later  I  left  my  new  friend  at  Philip- 
popolis  with  a  regret  I  cannot  explain,  but  with 
an  exacted  promise  to  meet  me  in  Constantino- 
ple a  week  later,  where  we  would  enjoy  the 
Turks  together. 

The  week  passed,  and  another,  and  then  a 
third,  and  still  no  sign  of  Burton.  I  had  begun 
to  wonder  whether,  after  all,  the  brigand  chief 
had  not  served  him  as  he  had  done  his  prede- 
cessors, when  this  letter,  dated  Sofia,  reached 
me,  — 

"Just  returned  from  the  mountains.  Spent  a 
most  delightful  week  with  Achmet  Aga,  who 
kissed  me  on  both  cheeks  when  I  left,  and  gave 
me  a  charm  against  fire  and  sword  blessed  by 
all  the  wise  women  of  the  clan.  Would  have 
joined  you  before,  but  had  to  hurry  back  here 
for  the  opening  of  the  Sobranje. 
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A  BULGARIAN  OPERA  BOUFFE 

"  Stamboloff  s  party  carried  the  day  by  a 
small  majority,  and  the  town  is  full  of  his  men, 
including  the  prince,  who  opened  parliament 
here  yesterday." 


THE  END 


(Cfic 

CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
U    .    S    .   A 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below 


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Form  L9-50m-7,'54 (5990) 444 


The  novels, 

^stories  and, 

sketches  of 


L  006  375  144  0 


PS 

2860 
F02 
v.2 


